I've no pretentions in coming here... and to cut things short, I'll tell you
that I came to be on a ranch working as a hired hand.
The one who's boss always has the power to make a sacrifice of a poor man ...
At a neighbouring landowner's one of the drovers got killed
and they framed it on me – but even so it came out true in the evidence.
You who are honest can imagine the shame and the misery
that my soul must have been full of when I found myself, so young,
already in the same state as men who poison their hands with crime.
There were two others accused as well in the case of the dead man,
but the matter didn't come out clear and to show how smart he was,
the Judge told us, 'You'll all go together, tied up fast as Christ.
'I'm going to send all three of you to the Justice Ordinary.'
He'd got it right, that Judge had, and so has anyone who threatens that –
ornery, that's the word for it, as I found out afterwards.
As I was saying, he sent us on to that Ordinary Justice
and we went, along with the evidence, to the prison for criminals
that they've given a new baptism now and call it Penitentiary.
No one told me the reason why it' s got this name,
but I explain it this way -- they say penitence-i-ary
because of the penance every day* that you suffer while you're there.
A criollo who gets into trouble is bound for plenty of suffering,
and no one will help him, either, if he's got no means of his own.
A gringo's more resourceful -- when he murders, he pretends he's mad.
I don't know how much time went by there in that sepulchre.
If no one hurries it from outside the case goes lingering on --
they've got their prey safe and they let the trial go sleep.
The prisoner has no idea which way the scales will tip –
but there's such a long delay that I can tell you for my part
a man who enters in that place leaves his hopes outside of it.
Without improving the laws they improve the punishment.
I've an idea whoever invented it must have had a curse on him –
however bad a crime may be that punishment is worse.
It's enough to crack in two even the proudest heart.
The prison guards are not really bad but they're more hard and dry, maybe,
than the very walls themselves where you groan in captivity.
It's not with fetters or with chains that you suffer the penalty,
but with a solitude and a silence that's so deep
it seems as if you're the only one who's left in all the world.
Even the proudest man, even old and long in the tooth,
would get to be worn down in that place, and his heart would wither up
when he found himself shut in all alone with his crime.
No one's a bull in that prison, in there, they're all quiet as lambs.
When he finds he's behind those bars, even the most arrogant
can do nothing except give in, and bear his imprisonment, quietly.
And I'll say to anyone who doesn't know what that cruel punishment is –
I who had to bear the chains of a fate that has no mercy --
Make the most of this experience of evil, on another's head.
Ah, you mothers who guide the steps of the sons born from your womb,
don't think I'm deceiving you, nor that it's an imposter saying this –
we who live on the land don't know what it means to be in jail.
Daughters and wives and sisters, whoever has a man she loves,
tell them that a prison is a fearful kind of hell
where you hear no other noise except the beating of your heart
In there, there's no sun in the daytime and the night has no stars:
there's no use in your protesting, they punish you, you're shut in,
and the tears you shed drop down on to those prison walls.
In that terrible loneliness, you can hear the beat that comes from your breast.
I know because I've suffered it -- if you're listening, believe what I say –
I should think that in Purgatory the souls must make more noise.
You count the endless hours and that torments you still worse –
in your misery, you're reckoning up each tear as it rolls down,
counting the number of heartbeats in the time it takes to dry.
In there the wildest man gets tamed, the strongest gives way, in there:
the silence of it is so deep that you'll be able to hear
even the sound of the footsteps of Death, when he comes along.
Even right inside a man there's a change takes place.
Stuck there in that prison, from looking a nothing so long
there's born and stays marked in him the idea of what perfection is.
I thought about everything, my mother, and my brothers -
a man who has entered in there may have the most worthless memory,
but it draws him pictures faithfully of everything he's seen outside.
Anyone who has lived free to ride wherever he wants
pines and grows desperate when he finds himself shut in there:
it's a living torture that breaks down the wildest soul.
There in that narrow prison which I could never grow accustomed to,
I was always crying out What I'd give to have
a horse to ride and the pampa to gallop on!
But you're fenced around at all times and mourning continually.
They've invented the punishment of shutting you in the dark -
and you're there as if you were tied to a stake of iron, that can never break.
There's no sad thought that doesn't come to torment a prisoner:
beneath the ceaseless pain of it he bows his head in the end.
because a time of trouble always has sorrow for a sister.
The tears go rolling from his eyes but they don't lighten his sorrow:
through an unending struggle without a moment's peace
his soul's eyes are gazing at the happiness he longs for.
There's no comfort can penetrate behind the walls of that place.
Even the toughest kind of man, even though he's harder than nails,
once he's stuck in that hell, will suffer and groan and cry and stay quiet.
Your heart's full of desperation so that it's ready to burst,
but there's nothing to do but bear it even though you find no rest --
in such agony, it's a happy man if he knows how to pray.
A man who knows a prayer to say can lift his heart to God ‑‑
he's forgotten by the world groaning there in his distress,
and it makes a sorrow deeper when there's no one to pity it.
With this cruel anguish and bitter suffering,
my hair started to turn grey after a very few months...
A thousand times in there, I regretted not having learnt to read.
Rage is the first that comes to you and after that, melancholy.
In my misery, I had nothing to bring me comfort or relief
except to water the floor of that place with my tears, by night and day.
Other prisoners' families used to come and visit them.
Nobody came to visit me while I was shut up in there --
who'd take the trouble to go and see a man with no friends in the world?
I call a blessing on any gaoler who has a merciful heart!
I know there can't be many who would be able to claim it,
because if they have any pity their duty is to hide it.
My tongue could never manage to describe all I endured ...
When you're stuck in there imprisoned, the keys and walls and locks
become so graven into your eyes you see them even in your sleep.
Mate isn't allowed, they don't allow you to talk,
they don't allow you to sing to lighten your misery –
and as the most terrible hardship they don't even let you smoke.
When justice is severe as this it comes near cruelty.
A wretched man who's in that place grows fevered and delirious,
because there's no worse agony than that eternal loneliness.
We'd talk to the bars on the windows just for the pleasure of speaking,
but they'd order us to keep quiet and we'd have to submit to it,
because it's better not to annoy people who can punish us.
So you bear your troubles in silence, unable to say a word,
and in these sort of conditions you turn into an animal --
as you're deprived of the chief gift that was given to men by God.
It's beyond my understanding what the reason can be
for depriving a prisoner of the most precious gifts
that God in his goodness and justice granted to humanity.
Because I suppose -- though I'm ignorant -- that out of all the good things
which were given to proud man by the Divine Majesty,
speech is the first of them and friendship is the second.
And the law's a very severe one that for a crime or fault
can inflict a man with a punishment that's so cruel and inhuman
it deprives him of a blessing which he received from God.
The loneliness unnerves you -- the silence is horrible.
This is the worse torment of all, to be afraid all the time -
and in a close prison such cruelty goes too far.
For all you know you'll leave that place only to go to your grave.
A man in trouble needs to find another being by his side,
because it's always good to have companions in bitterness.
Someone wiser than me could find a better reason than this:
I'm not one who goes deep into things, and this makes it clear for me –
they gave companions to the Lord when they nailed him to a cross.
And, deep in the darkness where my understanding moves,
something in my heart resists this torment without a name -
because one man cheers another, and talking consoles your grief.
What I've said here should be carved on your minds as if it was on stone.
And even though I've suffered so much it's right I should admit
that the man who's in command of that place is not far short of a saint.
And the rest of them are good men, as well, they act by his example,
but for all that, the conditions there are none the less terrible –
think of it, and you'll all understand the meaning of my complaints.
And keep a place in your memory as carefully as you can
for the things I've described to you as clearly as I could:
you'll have a lot to suffer if you doubt the truth in me.
And if you take notice of my words there'll be no dungeons full.
Keep on the right side of the law and always remember this -
I've not put in too many arguments, more likely not enough.
And with that I'll take my leave -- you must make allowance for me.
The story of an unlucky man is something no one should forget:
if you've lived your life in a prison you don't have much to relate.
NOTE to II.12
II.12.17] penance every day] the pun in the original is between penitenciaria and penitencia diaria (daily penance).
Martin Fierro's Second Son
Don't anybody question the things I'm going to tell you.
I've made up my mind to do it even though it's a tough nut to crack –
the heart can tell what it wants, but the tongue won't help it out.
For ten years we've been enduring the hardship misfortune brings,
wandering among strangers with no home of our own,
being forced to put up with a power of injuries.
If that's the kind of life you lead you're everybody's slave -
take away the head and chief and the children that he supports
scatter apart -- like the beads do when you break a rosary.
So I got on as everyone has to until, at the end of her days,
an aunt of mine heard about my fate and took me to live with her -
and there I stayed peacefully with everything I could want.
I had nothing at all to worry about, and no need to work either,
I spent the time just lazing around like a boy who's soft in the head --
but it's quite true what the song says, good things don't last for long.
Her care and her affection were all set on me.
She loved me as if I was her son with real tenderness,
and she named me the inheritor of all her property.
The Judge came along in no time as soon as the old lay died.
He told me, "I'll be taking care of the goods she's left to you -
it's a fair-sized cattle herd and a couple of flocks of sheep."
He was a man who had a way with words, and knew more laws than a lawyer does,.
He told me, "You’re a Minor, and on account of your age
you can't be in charge of property -- I'll appoint you a Guardian."
He made out a list of all there was, because he knew his job well;
and after held cooked the pudding according to his plan,
he put a man in charge of it and took me away with him.
Before very long, my poncho was full of holes as a sieve.
My chiripa was worse -- and though it takes a lot to make me feel cold,
soon I was left without a rag whether it was cold or hot.
And in this wretched condition one month went past the next:
the Judge never said a word and poverty took care of me --
when I saw myself like that I used to remember my aunt.
How much time I spent there I couldn't say for sure,
but after living in that way like a horse that no one owns,*
I was put in charge of the Guardian who had to look after me.
NOTE to II.13
II.13.12] a horse that no one owns] the original Spanish saying was "like a Moor (moro, i.e. slave) without a master"; the Argentine changed the meaning of moro to "(black) horse". See note at I.3.13.
An old man took me away with him whosoon showed what he was made of.
You could see from the face on him he was a kind of wild animal --
Viscacha* was what they called him and he was a foul-mouthed old thief.
As to what the Judge was after, I've an idea, and I'm not wrong.
but I won't refer to this point nor go digging his secrets up ...
My guardian was one of the old sort which there aren't many left of now.
An old fellow, always up to tricks and with the build of a bull,
He rode around on a dark roan always, mixed up in Lord knows what schemes,
with his feet hooked like a parrot's from the stirrup between his toes.*
He went around surrounded by dogs which were the only things he cared for.
There was never a time when he had less than half a dozen of them -
he'd kill other people's cattle to get meat for their food.
Night after night we used to skin some beast from the neighbourhood,
and leaving the rest of it where it was he'd hoist the hide behind his saddle
and sell it to the owner of a store for mate and tobacco and drink.
A greater old swindler than he was I've never come across in my life.
Taking that hide he’d stolen he used to fix up a deal of sale --
and the store-man and he between them composed the certificate.*
He was a great one for volonteering work, and at sheep-shearings, you should have seen him,
he got furious as a wild animal if one of the sheep got cut –
but this didn't stop him from lifting a fleece or a pair of shears.
One day he gave me a tanning that sent me crying for help,
because I'd hurt a puppy at some Basque women's place -
and when he left, he stole some leather straps, he was sly as a fox at that.
"You son of a bitch" I said to myself, "for hurting me this way
you'll see, as soon as I catch sight of half an opportunity,
I'll break your habit of cutting hair* off other people's mares."
Because I killed a viscacha another time, he swore at me:
I'd gone and told him about it, and I'd hardly spoken, when he said,
"Don't let me hear the name of those creatures" and got furious at me.
Seeing him worked up like that I thought it best to keep quiet.
"If he's taking offence," I said to myself "he'll make me pay for it."
I could see they put him in a rage and didn't mention them any more.
One evening, he came across a whole lot of broken-down mares.
After he'd got a few of them down he was busy cutting their manes –
I saw the owner coming, but didn't open my mouth.
The man came up in a fury and fell on us like a flash.
He threw himself straight off his horse whirling his whip around,
and he caught my guardian right away with a lash across his back