The Passing of Enriquez

"The Passing of Enriquez" by Bret Harte is a poignant short story that explores themes of identity, nostalgia, and cultural transition in the American West. Set in a mining town during the gold rush era, the narrative revolves around the character of Enriquez, a once-prominent figure who embodies the spirit and struggles of the Hispanic community. As his life unfolds, the story reflects on the impact of societal changes, personal loss, and the bittersweet nature of progress. Harte's lyrical prose captures the complexities of human emotion and the inevitable passage of time, making it a compelling exploration of the American experience.

• Short story

								
When Enriquez Saltillo ran away with Miss Mannersley, as already
recorded in these chronicles,* her relatives and friends found it much
easier to forgive that ill-assorted union than to understand it. For,
after all, Enriquez was the scion of an old Spanish-Californian family,
and in due time would have his share of his father's three square
leagues, whatever incongruity there was between his lively Latin
extravagance and Miss Mannersley's Puritan precision and intellectual
superiority. They had gone to Mexico; Mrs. Saltillo, as was known,
having an interest in Aztec antiquities, and he being utterly submissive
to her wishes. For myself from my knowledge of Enriquez's nature, I had
grave doubts of his entire subjugation, although I knew the prevailing
opinion was that Mrs. Saltillo's superiority would speedily tame him.
Since his brief and characteristic note apprising me of his marriage,
I had not heard from him. It was, therefore, with some surprise, a good
deal of reminiscent affection, and a slight twinge of reproach that, two
years after, I looked up from some proofs, in the sanctum of the "Daily
Excelsior," to recognize his handwriting on a note that was handed to me
by a yellow Mexican boy.

     * See "The Devotion of Enriquez," in Selected Stories by
     Bret Harte Gutenberg #1312.

A single glance at its contents showed me that Mrs. Saltillo's
correct Bostonian speech had not yet subdued Enriquez's peculiar
Spanish-American slang:--

"Here we are again,--right side up with care,--at 1110 Dupont Street,
Telegraph Hill. Second floor from top. 'Ring and push.' 'No book agents
need apply.' How's your royal nibs? I kiss your hand! Come at six,--the
band shall play at seven,--and regard your friend 'Mees Boston,' who
will tell you about the little old n*gger boys, and your old Uncle
'Ennery."

Two things struck me: Enriquez had not changed; Mrs. Saltillo had
certainly yielded up some of her peculiar prejudices. For the address
given, far from being a fashionable district, was known as the "Spanish
quarter," which, while it still held some old Spanish families, was
chiefly given over to half-castes and obscurer foreigners. Even poverty
could not have driven Mrs. Saltillo to such a refuge against her will;
nevertheless, a good deal of concern for Enriquez's fortune mingled with
my curiosity, as I impatiently waited for six o'clock to satisfy it.

It was a breezy climb to 1110 Dupont Street; and although the street
had been graded, the houses retained their airy elevation, and were
accessible only by successive flights of wooden steps to the front door,
which still gave perilously upon the street, sixty feet below. I now
painfully appreciated Enriquez's adaptation of the time-honored joke
about the second floor. An invincible smell of garlic almost took my
remaining breath away as the door was opened to me by a swarthy Mexican
woman, whose loose camisa seemed to be slipping from her unstable bust,
and was held on only by the mantua-like shawl which supplemented it,
gripped by one brown hand. Dizzy from my ascent to that narrow perch,
which looked upon nothing but the distant bay and shores of Contra
Costa, I felt as apologetic as if I had landed from a balloon; but the
woman greeted me with a languid Spanish smile and a lazy display of
white teeth, as if my arrival was quite natural. Don Enriquez, "of a
fact," was not himself in the casa, but was expected "on the instant."
"Donna Urania" was at home.

"Donna Urania"? For an instant I had forgotten that Mrs. Saltillo's
first name was Urania, so pleasantly and spontaneously did it fall
from the Spanish lips. Nor was I displeased at this chance of learning
something of Don Enriquez's fortunes and the Saltillo menage before
confronting my old friend. The servant preceded me to the next floor,
and, opening a door, ushered me into the lady's presence.

I had carried with me, on that upward climb, a lively recollection of
Miss Mannersley as I had known her two years before. I remembered her
upright, almost stiff, slight figure, the graceful precision of her
poses, the faultless symmetry and taste of her dress, and the atmosphere
of a fastidious and wholesome cleanliness which exhaled from her. In the
lady I saw before me, half reclining in a rocking-chair, there was
none of the stiffness and nicety. Habited in a loose gown of some easy,
flexible, but rich material, worn with that peculiarly indolent
slouch of the Mexican woman, Mrs. Saltillo had parted with half her
individuality. Even her arched feet and thin ankles, the close-fitting
boots or small slippers of which were wont to accent their delicacy,
were now lost in a short, low-quartered kid shoe of the Spanish type,
in which they moved loosely. Her hair, which she had always worn with a
certain Greek simplicity, was parted at one side. Yet her face, with
its regularity of feature, and small, thin, red-lipped mouth, was quite
unchanged; and her velvety brown eyes were as beautiful and inscrutable
as ever.

With the same glance I had taken in her surroundings, quite as
incongruous to her former habits. The furniture, though of old and heavy
mahogany, had suffered from careless alien hands, and was interspersed
with modern and unmatchable makeshifts, yet preserving the distinctly
scant and formal attitude of furnished lodgings. It was certainly
unlike the artistic trifles and delicate refinements of her uncle's
drawing-room, which we all knew her taste had dictated and ruled. The
black and white engravings, the outlined heads of Minerva and Diana,
were excluded from the walls for two cheap colored Catholic prints,--a
soulless Virgin, and the mystery of the Bleeding Heart. Against the
wall, in one corner, hung the only object which seemed a memento of
their travels,--a singular-looking upright Indian "papoose-case" or
cradle, glaringly decorated with beads and paint, probably an Aztec
relic. On a round table, the velvet cover of which showed marks of usage
and abusage, there were scattered books and writing materials; and my
editorial instinct suddenly recognized, with a thrill of apprehension,
the loose leaves of an undoubted manuscript. This circumstance, taken
with the fact of Donna Urania's hair being parted on one side, and the
general negligee of her appearance, was a disturbing revelation.

My wandering eye apparently struck her, for after the first greeting she
pointed to the manuscript with a smile.

"Yes; that is THE manuscript. I suppose Enriquez told you all about it?
He said he had written."

I was dumfounded. I certainly had not understood ALL of Enriquez's
slang; it was always so decidedly his own, and peculiar. Yet I could not
recall any allusion to this.

"He told me something of it, but very vaguely," I ventured to say
deprecatingly; "but I am afraid that I thought more of seeing my old
friend again than of anything else."

"During our stay in Mexico," continued Mrs. Saltillo, with something of

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