The Passing of Enriquez Page #2

"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

								

her old precision, "I made some researches into Aztec history, a subject
always deeply interesting to me, and I thought I would utilize the
result by throwing it on paper. Of course it is better fitted for a
volume of reference than for a newspaper, but Enriquez thought you might
want to use it for your journal."

I knew that Enriquez had no taste for literature, and had even rather
depreciated it in the old days, with his usual extravagance; but I
managed to say very pleasantly that I was delighted with his suggestion
and should be glad to read the manuscript. After all, it was not
improbable that Mrs. Saltillo, who was educated and intelligent, should
write well, if not popularly. "Then Enriquez does not begrudge you the
time that your work takes from him," I added laughingly. "You seem to
have occupied your honeymoon practically."

"We quite comprehend our respective duties," said Mrs. Saltillo dryly;
"and have from the first. We have our own lives to live, independent
of my uncle and Enriquez's father. We have not only accepted the
responsibility of our own actions, but we both feel the higher
privilege of creating our own conditions without extraneous aid from our
relatives."

It struck me that this somewhat exalted statement was decidedly a pose,
or a return of Urania Mannersley's old ironical style. I looked quietly
into her brown, near-sighted eyes; but, as once before, my glance seemed
to slip from their moist surface without penetrating the inner thought
beneath. "And what does Enriquez do for HIS part?" I asked smilingly.

I fully expected to hear that the energetic Enriquez was utilizing
his peculiar tastes and experiences by horse-breaking, stock-raising,
professional bull-fighting, or even horse-racing, but was quite
astonished when she answered quietly:--

"Enriquez is giving himself up to geology and practical metallurgy, with
a view to scientific, purely scientific, mining."

Enriquez and geology! In that instant all I could remember of it were
his gibes at the "geologian," as he was wont to term Professor Dobbs,
a former admirer of Miss Mannersley's. To add to my confusion Mrs.
Saltillo at the same moment absolutely voiced my thought.

"You may remember Professor Dobbs," she went on calmly, "one of the most
eminent scientists over here, and a very old Boston friend. He has
taken Enriquez in hand. His progress is most satisfactory; we have the
greatest hopes of him."

"And how soon do you both hope to have some practical results of his
study?" I could not help asking a little mischievously; for I somehow
resented the plural pronoun in her last sentence.

"Very soon," said Mrs. Saltillo, ignoring everything but the question.
"You know Enriquez's sanguine temperament. Perhaps he is already given
to evolving theories without a sufficient basis of fact. Still, he has
the daring of a discoverer. His ideas of the oolitic formation are not
without originality, and Professor Dobbs says that in his conception of
the Silurian beach there are gleams that are distinctly precious."

I looked at Mrs. Saltillo, who had reinforced her eyes with her old
piquant pince-nez, but could detect no irony in them. She was prettily
imperturbable, that was all. There was an awkward silence. Then it was
broken by a bounding step on the stairs, a wide-open fling of the door,
and Enriquez pirouetted into the room: Enriquez, as of old, unchanged
from the crown of his smooth, coal-black hair to the tips of his small,
narrow Arabian feet; Enriquez, with his thin, curling mustache, his
dancing eyes set in his immovable face, just as I had always known him!

He affected to lapse against the door for a minute, as if staggered by a
resplendent vision. Then he said:--

"What do I regard? Is it a dream, or have I again got them--thees
jimjams? My best friend and my best--I mean my ONLY--wife! Embrace me!"

He gave me an enthusiastic embrace and a wink like sheet-lightning,
passed quickly to his wife, before whom he dropped on one knee, raised
the toe of her slipper to his lips, and then sank on the sofa in
simulated collapse, murmuring, "Thees is too mooch of white stone for
one day!"

Through all this I saw his wife regarding him with exactly the same
critically amused expression with which she had looked upon him in the
days of their strange courtship. She evidently had not tired of his
extravagance, and yet I feel as puzzled by her manner as then. She rose
and said: "I suppose you have a good deal to say to each other, and I
will leave you by yourselves." Turning to her husband, she added, "I
have already spoken about the Aztec manuscript."

The word brought Enriquez to his feet again. "Ah! The little old
n*gger--you have read?" I began to understand. "My wife, my best
friend, and the little old n*gger, all in one day. Eet is perfect!"
Nevertheless, in spite of this ecstatic and overpowering combination,
he hurried to take his wife's hand; kissing it, he led her to a door
opening into another room, made her a low bow to the ground as she
passed out, and then rejoined me.

"So these are the little old niggers you spoke of in your note," I said,
pointing to the manuscript. "Deuce take me if I understood you!"

"Ah, my leetle brother, it is YOU who have changed!" said Enriquez
dolorously. "Is it that you no more understand American, or have the
'big head' of the editor? Regard me! Of these Aztecs my wife have made
study. She have pursued the little n*gger to his cave, his grotto, where
he is dead a thousand year. I have myself assist, though I like it not,
because thees mummy, look you, Pancho, is not lively. And the mummy who
is not dead, believe me! even the young lady mummy, you shall not take
to your heart. But my wife"--he stopped, and kissed his hand toward the
door whence she had flitted--"ah, SHE is wonderful! She has made the
story of them, the peecture of them, from the life and on the instant!
You shall take them, my leetle brother, for your journal; you shall
announce in the big letter: 'Mooch Importance. The Aztec, He is Found.'
'How He Look and Lif.' 'The Everlasting N*gger.' You shall sell many
paper, and Urania shall have scoop in much spondulics and rocks.
Hoop-la! For--you comprehend?--my wife and I have settled that she shall
forgif her oncle; I shall forgif my father; but from them we take no
cent, not a red, not a scad! We are independent! Of ourselves we make a
Fourth of July. United we stand; divided we shall fall over! There you
are! Bueno!"

It was impossible to resist his wild, yet perfectly sincere,
extravagance, his dancing black eyes and occasional flash of white teeth
in his otherwise immovable and serious countenance. Nevertheless, I
managed to say:--

"But how about yourself, Enriquez, and this geology, you know?"

His eyes twinkled. "Ah, you shall hear. But first you shall take a

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