The Devotion of Enriquez Page #5

"The Devotion of Enriquez" is a short story by Bret Harte, set in the rugged landscapes of California's Gold Rush era. The narrative centers on the character Enriquez, a loyal and devoted Mexican servant who navigates themes of love, sacrifice, and cultural tensions. Through his unwavering dedication to a wealthy American family, the story explores the complexities of loyalty across social and racial divides, ultimately revealing profound insights into human relationships and the moral dilemmas faced by individuals in a rapidly changing society. Harte's vivid storytelling and rich characterizations offer a poignant reflection on honor and devotion in an era marked by both opportunity and conflict.

• Short story

								

have formerly stated, although the youthful fair of the Encinal were
flattered by her casual attentions, and secretly admired her superior
style and aristocratic calm, they were more or less uneasy under the
dominance of her intelligence and education, and were afraid to attempt
either confidence or familiarity. They were also singularly jealous
of her, for although the average young man was equally afraid of her
cleverness and her candor, he was not above paying a tremulous and timid
court to her for its effect upon her humbler sisters. This evening she
was surrounded by her usual satellites, including, of course, the local
notables and special guests of distinction. She had been discussing,
I think, the existence of glaciers on Mount Shasta with a spectacled
geologist, and had participated with charming frankness in a
conversation on anatomy with the local doctor and a learned professor,
when she was asked to take a seat at the piano. She played with
remarkable skill and wonderful precision, but coldly and brilliantly.
As she sat there in her subdued but perfectly fitting evening dress,
her regular profile and short but slender neck firmly set upon her high
shoulders, exhaling an atmosphere of refined puritanism and provocative
intelligence, the utter incongruity of Enriquez' extravagant attentions
if ironical, and their equal hopelessness if not, seemed to me plainer
than ever. What had this well-poised, coldly observant spinster to do
with that quaintly ironic ruffler, that romantic cynic, that rowdy Don
Quixote, that impossible Enriquez? Presently she ceased playing. Her
slim, narrow slipper, revealing her thin ankle, remained upon the
pedal; her delicate fingers were resting idly on the keys; her head was
slightly thrown back, and her narrow eyebrows prettily knit toward the
ceiling in an effort of memory.

"Something of Chopin's," suggested the geologist, ardently.

"That exquisite sonata!" pleaded the doctor.

"Suthin' of Rubinstein. Heard him once," said a gentleman of Siskiyou.
"He just made that pianner get up and howl. Play Rube."

She shook her head with parted lips and a slight touch of girlish
coquetry in her manner. Then her fingers suddenly dropped upon the keys
with a glassy tinkle; there were a few quick pizzicato chords, down went
the low pedal with a monotonous strumming, and she presently began to
hum to herself. I started--as well I might--for I recognized one of
Enriquez' favorite and most extravagant guitar solos. It was audacious;
it was barbaric; it was, I fear, vulgar. As I remembered it--as he
sang it--it recounted the adventures of one Don Francisco, a provincial
gallant and roisterer of the most objectionable type. It had one hundred
and four verses, which Enriquez never spared me. I shuddered as in a
pleasant, quiet voice the correct Miss Mannersley warbled in musical
praise of the PELLEJO, or wineskin, and a eulogy of the dicebox came
caressingly from her thin red lips. But the company was far differently
affected: the strange, wild air and wilder accompaniment were evidently
catching; people moved toward the piano; somebody whistled the air from
a distant corner; even the faces of the geologist and doctor brightened.

"A tarantella, I presume?" blandly suggested the doctor.

Miss Mannersley stopped, and rose carelessly from the piano. "It is a
Moorish gypsy song of the fifteenth century," she said dryly.

"It seemed sorter familiar, too," hesitated one of the young men,
timidly, "like as if--don't you know?--you had without knowing it, don't
you know?"--he blushed slightly--"sorter picked it up somewhere."

"I 'picked it up,' as you call it, in the collection of medieval
manuscripts of the Harvard Library, and copied it," returned Miss
Mannersley coldly as she turned away.

But I was not inclined to let her off so easily. I presently made my way
to her side. "Your uncle was complimentary enough to consult me as to
the meaning of the appearance of a certain exuberant Spanish visitor
at his house the other night." I looked into her brown eyes, but my
own slipped off her velvety pupils without retaining anything. Then she
reinforced her gaze with a pince-nez, and said carelessly:

"Oh, it's you? How are you? Well, could you give him any information?"

"Only generally," I returned, still looking into her eyes. "These people
are impulsive. The Spanish blood is a mixture of gold and quicksilver."

She smiled slightly. "That reminds me of your volatile friend. He was
mercurial enough, certainly. Is he still dancing?"

"And singing sometimes," I responded pointedly. But she only added
casually, "A singular creature," without exhibiting the least
consciousness, and drifted away, leaving me none the wiser. I felt that
Enriquez alone could enlighten me. I must see him.

I did, but not in the way I expected. There was a bullfight at San
Antonio the next Saturday afternoon, the usual Sunday performance being
changed in deference to the Sabbatical habits of the Americans. An
additional attraction was offered in the shape of a bull-and-bear fight,
also a concession to American taste, which had voted the bullfight
"slow," and had averred that the bull "did not get a fair show." I am
glad that I am able to spare the reader the usual realistic horrors, for
in the Californian performances there was very little of the brutality
that distinguished this function in the mother country. The horses were
not miserable, worn-out hacks, but young and alert mustangs; and the
display of horsemanship by the picadors was not only wonderful, but
secured an almost absolute safety to horse and rider. I never saw
a horse gored; although unskillful riders were sometimes thrown in
wheeling quickly to avoid the bull's charge, they generally regained
their animals without injury.

The Plaza de Toros was reached through the decayed and tile-strewn
outskirts of an old Spanish village. It was a rudely built oval
amphitheater, with crumbling, whitewashed adobe walls, and roofed only
over portions of the gallery reserved for the provincial "notables," but
now occupied by a few shopkeepers and their wives, with a sprinkling of
American travelers and ranchmen. The impalpable adobe dust of the arena
was being whirled into the air by the strong onset of the afternoon
trade winds, which happily, however, helped also to dissipate a reek
of garlic, and the acrid fumes of cheap tobacco rolled in cornhusk
cigarettes. I was leaning over the second barrier, waiting for the
meager and circuslike procession to enter with the keys of the bull pen,
when my attention was attracted to a movement in the reserved gallery.
A lady and gentleman of a quality that was evidently unfamiliar to the
rest of the audience were picking their way along the rickety benches
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