Rafael Delgado was born in Cordoba, State of Vera Cruz, August 20, 1853, of a highly honorable and respected family. His father was for many years the Jefe politico of Cordoba, but at the close of his service retired to Orizaba. This removal was made when Rafael was but two months old, and it was in Orizaba that he was reared and has spent most of his life. After receiving his earlier instruction in the Colegio de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, he was sent, in 1865, to the City of Mexico, where, however, on account of the turbulence of that time, he spent but one year. On account of the disturbances due to civil war his father lost the greater part of his fortune. In May, 1868, Rafael entered the Colegio Nacional de Orizaba, then just organized, where he completed his studies. From 1875 on, for a space of eighteen years, he was teacher of geography and history in that institution. The salary was so small and irregular that, at times, he was compelled to give elementary instruction in other schools in order to meet expenses. In his own personal studies, outside of his professional work, he was especially interested in the drama, and he carefully read and studied the Greek, Latin, French and Italian dramatists, as well as the Spanish. In 1878 he wrote two dramas, La caja de dulces (The Box of Sweets), prose in three acts, and Una taza de te (A Cup of Tea) in verse in a single act. These were staged and met a good reception. At a banquet tendered to the author after the first rendering of La caja de dulces, his friends presented him a silver crown and a gold pen. In 1879, Rafael Delgado published a translation of Octave Feuillet’s A Case of Conscience and later an original monologue—Antes de la boda (Before the Wedding).

Between the ages of sixteen and thirty years, Delgado wrote much lyric poetry. Francisco Sosa compares his work in this field with that of Pesado, and adds: “Greater commendation cannot be given.” From the time when he was a student in the Colegio Nacional at Orizaba, Delgado always received the helpful encouragement of his old teacher, the head of that school, Silvestre Moreno Cora. It was due to this truly great man’s efforts that the Sociedad SÁnchez Oropeza was founded in Orizaba, in the literary section of which Rafael Delgado was active. At this society he gave a series of brilliant Conversaciones and to its Bulletin he contributed both prose and verse. He has written Cuentos (Tales) of excellence, showing the influence of Daudet. More important, however, than his lyric poems and his stories, are Delgado’s novels, three in number, La Calandria, Angelina, Los parientes ricos (Rich Relations). In fiction he is a realist. He prefers to deal with the common people; he is ever a poet in form and spirit; his satire is never bitter; beauty in nature ever appeals strongly to him. Without being a servile imitator, he has been influenced by Daudet and the Goncourts. His plots are simple—almost nothing. In regard to this, he himself, in speaking of Los parientes ricos, says: “Plot does not enter much into my plan. It is true that it gives interest to a novel, but it usually distracts the mind from the truth. For me the novel is history, and thus does not always have the machinery and arrangement of the spectacular drama. In my judgment it ought to be the artistic copy of the truth; somewhat, that is, as history, a fine art. I have desired that Los parientes ricos should be something of that sort; an exact page from Mexican life.”

In Calandria, the story opens with the death of Guadalupe, an abandoned woman, poor and consumptive. The man of wealth, who betrayed her, has a lovely home and a beautiful daughter. Carmen, “the Calandria,” as she is nicknamed by those about her on account of her singing, the illegitimate daughter of Don Eduardo by Guadalupe, is left in poverty. An appeal, made in her behalf, by a priest to Don Eduardo fails to secure her full recognition and reception into his home, but leads to his arranging for her care in the tenement where she lives and where Guadalupe died. An old woman, DoÑa Pancha, who had been kind to her mother, receives the orphan into her home. Her son, Gabriel, an excellent young man, a cabinet-maker by trade, loves her, and she reciprocates his love. A neighbor in the tenement, Magdalena, exerts an unhappy influence upon Carmen, leading to estrangement between her and DoÑa Pancha. Magdalena encourages her to receive the attentions of a worthless and vicious, wealthy youth named Rosas. At a dance given in Magdalena’s room, Rosas is attentive, and Carmen, flattered and dazzled, is guilty of some indiscretions. This leads to a rupture between her and Gabriel. To escape the persecutions of Rosas, Carmen goes with the friendly priest to a retreat at some little distance. The troubles between the lovers approach adjustment, but at the critical moment Rosas appears upon the scene, and the girl, though she rejects him, is compromised. Gabriel stifles his love and actually casts her off. In despair, the girl yields to the appeals of Rosas, who promises marriage. He is false, and soon tiring, abandons her. From then her downward career is rapid and soon ends in suicide.

EXTRACTS FROM CALANDRIA.

And she sighed and spent long hours in gazing at the landscape; attentive to the rustling of the trees, to the flitting to and fro of the butterflies, to the echoes of the valley, which repeated, sonorously, the regular stroke of the woodman’s axe, to the rushing of the neighboring stream, to the cooing of the turtle-dove living in the neighboring cottonwood.

I need to be loved and Gabriel has despised me. I need to be happy and cannot because Gabriel, my Gabriel, is offended. He has repulsed me, he has refused my caresses, he has not cared for my kisses. I desire to be happy as this sparrow, graceful and coquettish, which nests in this orange tree. How she chirps and flutters her wings when she sees her mate coming. I cannot forget what took place that night. Never did I love him more, never! I was going to confess all to him, repentant, resolved to end completely with Alberto, to say to Gabriel: “I did this; pardon me! Are you noble, generous, do you love me? Pardon me! I do not covet riches, nor conveniences, nor elegance. Are you poor? Poor, I love you. Are you of humble birth? So, I love you! Pardon me, Gabriel! See how I adore you! I have erred—I have offended you—I forgot that my heart was yours. Take pity on this poor orphan, who has no one to counsel her. Pardon me! You are good, very good, are you not? Forget all, forget it, Gabriel. See, I am worthy of you. I do not love this man; I do not love him. I told him I loved him because I did not know what to do. I let him give me a kiss because I could not prevent it. Forgive me! And he appears to be of iron. He showed himself haughty, proud, and cruel as a tiger. But, he was right; he loved me, and I had offended him. One kiss? Yes—and what is a kiss? Air, nothing! I wanted to calm his annoyance, sweetly, with my caresses, and I could not. Weeping, I begged him to pardon me, and he refused. I said to him—resolved to all—what more could I do?—I said to him, here you have me—I am yours—do with me what you will! And, he remained mute, reserved, did not look at me. He did not see me; he did not speak to me, but I read distrust, contempt, restrained rage, in his face. He almost insulted me. If he had not loved me so much, I believe he would have killed me! Again I tried to conquer him with my caresses. I wished to give him a kiss—and he repulsed me! Ah, Gabriel! How much you deceive yourself! How self-satisfied you are! You are poor, of humble birth, an artisan—and you have the pride of a king! Thus I love you, thus I have loved you. Haughty, proud, indomitable, thus I would wish you for my love! I would have softened your character; I would have dominated your pride; I would have conquered you with my kisses. You love me, but my tears have not moved you! You are strong and boast of your strength, for which I adore you! You are generous, and yet you do not know how to pardon a weak woman! And we would have been happy. One word from you and nothing more! If it were still possible—and—why not?”

* * * *

But, when he heard from the mouth of Angelito that Carmen had responded to the gallantries of Rosas, when the boy described the scene which he had witnessed, and in which, yielding to the desires of Alberto, the orphan had permitted herself to be kissed, the very heavens seemed to fall; he raged at seeing his love mocked and dragged in the mud, and promptly told DoÑa Pancha all he had learned. The old woman strove to calm him; made just remarks about Carmen’s origin, telling him that she might have inherited the tendency to evil from her mother and the desire for luxury, which had been her perdition; she begged him to cut completely loose from the orphan, and, fearful that he might, after the first impression caused by what Angelito described had passed, involve himself in humiliating love entanglements, appealed to her son’s generous sentiments, not to again think of the girl. And she succeeded.

Gabriel armed himself with courage and fulfilled his promise. Hard, most cruel, was the interview; his heart said: pardon her. Offended dignity cried: despise her. Love repeated: she loves you; is repentant, have pity on her; see how you are trifling with your dearest illusions, with all your hopes; but in his ears resounded his mother’s voice, tender, trembling with sympathy, supplicating, sad, Gabriel, my boy, if you love me, if you wish to repay me for all my cares, if you are a good son, forget her! He loved her and he ought not to love her. He wanted to despise her, to offend her, to outrage her, but he could not. He loved her so much! Wounded self-esteem said with stern and imperious accent: leave her.

When the cabinetmaker left his home that night, wishing to escape from his grief, almost repenting what he had done, wandering aimlessly, he journeyed through street after street, without note of distance. The main street of the city, broad and endless, lay before him, with its crooked line of lamps on either side, obscure and dismal in the distance. So the future looks to us, when we are victims of some unhappy disappointment, which shakes the soul as a cataclysm,—with not a light of counsel, not a ray of hope on the horizon.

He arrived at the end of the city and on seeing the broad cart-road that began there, passed a bridge, at the foot of a historic hill; he felt tempted to undertake an endless journey to distant lands, where no one knew him; to flee from Pluviosilla, that city fatal to his happiness, forever. But, he thought—my mother?

The river flowed serene, silent. The cabinet-maker, with his elbow on the hand-rail of the bridge, contemplated the black current of the river; the great plain which lost itself in the frightful shadow of the open country. A sentiment of gentle melancholy, consoling and soothing, came over his soul. Meantime, the more he dwelt on his misfortune, the more desolate appeared his life’s horizon, and something akin to that sad homesickness, which he experienced in his soul, when the maiden first said to him, I love you, passed like a refreshing wave through his soul. The abyss at his feet attracted him, called him. What did Gabriel think in those moments? Who can know? “No!” he murmured, turning and taking his way to the city.

The next day, he told DoÑa Pancha in a few words what had happened and then said no more of the matter. In vain Tacho, Solis, and LÓpez questioned him, on various occasions. He did not again mention Carmen. He learned that she had left Pluviosilla, but made no effort to learn where she had gone; and, not because he had forgotten her, but because he had resolved never to speak of her again. The journeyman and DoÑa Pancha repeated to him the conversation of Alberto and his friends, what they said of the planned elopement, but he scarcely deigned to listen, and answered with a scornful and profoundly sad smile.

When Angelito found him and told him that Carmen was at Xochiapan, repeating all that she had said, he hung his head as if he sought his answer on the ground, and exclaimed:

“Say you have not seen me. No—tell her that I beg she will not think of me again.”

And he turned away, disdainful and sad.

* * * *

The young man placed himself in a good position, resolved to hear the mass with the utmost devotion; but he could not do it. There, near by, was Carmen; there was the woman for whom he would have given all that he had, even to his life. He did not wish to see her, and yet did nothing else. He turned his face toward the altar, and without knowing how, when he least expected it, found his eyes fixed upon the maiden, whose graceful head, covered with a rebozo, did not remain still an instant, turning to all sides, in search of him. Gabriel remained concealed behind the statue of San Ysidro which, placed on a table, surrounded by candles and great sprays of paper roses, served him as a screen.

Why had he come? Was he determined to reunite the interrupted loves? Would he yield to Carmen’s wishes? He had come to look at her, not desiring to see her; he had come to Xochiapan dragged by an irresistible power, but he would not yield. How could he blot out of his memory that kiss, that thundered kiss, which he had not heard but, which, nevertheless resounded for him like an injury, like an insulting word which demands blood? And yet he had seen her; there she was, near him, never so beautiful.

At the close of the service, at the ite misa est, Gabriel left promptly, so that when the faithful flocked out to the market-place, he was mounting his horse. On crossing the plaza, he met some rancheros, his friends, who invited him to drink a cup and then to eat at the ranch, which was not far distant. He accepted; it was necessary to distract himself. To leave the plaza, on the way to the house of his friends, it was necessary to pass along one side of the church; almost between the lines of vendors.

The Cura, DoÑa Mercedes, Angelito and Carmen were in the graveyard. Gabriel did not wish nor dare to greet his love; he turned his face away, but could see and feel the gaze of those dark eyes fixed upon him, a gaze profoundly sad which pierced his heart.

After dinner he returned to the town to take the road to Pluviosilla. His friends proposed to accompany him, but he refused their offer. He wished to be alone, alone, to meditate upon the thought which for hours had pursued him.

She loves me—he was thinking as he entered the town.—She loves me! Poor child! I have been cruel to her.—I ought to forgive her.—Why not? I will be generous. I will forgive all.

The energetic resolutions of the young man became a sentiment of tender compassion. His dignity and pride, of which he gave such grand examples a month before, yielded now to the impulses of his heart. He could resist no longer. Carmen triumphed; love triumphed.

I will speak with her; yes, I will speak with her; I will tell her that I love her with all my soul; that I cannot forget her; that I cannot live without her! I will tell her that I pardon; that we shall again be happy. Poor child! She is pale, ill——. I do not wish to increase her unhappiness.

At the end of the street, through which at the moment he was passing, the cabinet-maker saw two men on horseback, one on an English, the other on a Mexican saddle. Apparently, people of Pluviosilla.

The riders stopped a square away from the Curacy. The one dressed in charro, dismounted and cautiously advanced along the hedge. A terrible suspicion flashed through the young man’s mind. He quickly recognized the cautious individual. While this person was going along on tiptoe, as if awaiting a signal to approach, Gabriel took the lane to the right, then turned to the left and passed slowly in front of the window of the Curacy, at the moment when Rosas was speaking with Carmen at the grating.

His first idea was to kill his rival like a dog and then the infamous woman who was thus deceiving him—but—he was unarmed. He cursed his bad luck, hesitated a moment, between remaining and going, and, at last, whipping up his horse, went almost at a gallop, by the Pluviosilla road.