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Title: Justice! Author: Ricardo Flores Magón Date: 1914 Language: en Topics: fiction Source: Retrieved on April 8th, 2009 from http://www.waste.org/~roadrunner/writing/magon/ENArticles/justice.html Notes: Translated from Spanish by Mitchell Cowen Verter. From “Regeneration” number 192. June 13, 1914.
The governor, the capitalist, and the priest rested that afternoon in
the shadow of an ash tree which glowed vigorously in the canyon of the
mountain range.
The capitalist, visibly agitated, mashed the pulp of a red booklet
between his hands, and said between sigh and sigh:
“All has been lost: my fields, my cattle, my mills, my factories;
everything is now controlled by the revolutionaries.”
The governor, trembling with rage, said:
“It has ended; now no one respects authority.”
And the priest elevated his eyes to the sky and said remorsefully:
“Wicked reason: she has murdered faith!”
The three pillars of society thought, thought, and thought.... The
previous night, some fifty revolutionaries had invaded the village. The
working class of the area had received them with open arms. While the
town was searching for the governor, the capitalist, and the priest to
demand from them a strict account of their actions, they fled to the
canyon seeking refuge.
“Our empire over the masses has ended,” said the governor and the
capitalist in one voice.
The priest smiled and said in a convinced tone:
“Do not worry yourselves. Clearly, faith has lost some ground. However,
I assure you that, by means of religion, we can recuperate all we have
lost. First of all, it appears that the ideas contained in this evil
booklet have triumphed in the village. They will certainly triumph if we
remain inactive. I do not deny that these wicked ideas enjoy sympathy
among the people. However, others refuse them, especially the ideas that
directly attack Religion. Among these last people, we must foment a
reactionary movement. Fortunately, the three of us could escape. If we
had perished in the hands of the revolutionaries, the old institutions
would have died with us.”
The capitalist and the governor felt as if they had been liberated from
a terrible burden. Inspired by greed, the capitalist’s eyes drizzled.
How? How would it be possible for him to enjoy again the possession his
fields, his cattle, his mills, and his factories? Hadn’t it all been
just a cruel nightmare. Would he return to having the entire population
of his district under his power, thanks to the good minister of
Religion? And, standing up, he shook his fist in the direction of the
village, whose farmhouses glowed brightly under the rays of the May sun.
The governor, emotional, said with conviction:
“I have always believed that Religion is the most solid support of the
principal of authority. Religion teaches that God is the first leader
and that governors are his lieutenants on earth. Religion condemns
rebellion because it considers governors to be above the people by the
will of God. Long live Religion!”
Enamored by his own words, the governor snatched the red booklet from
the hands of the capitalist, tearing it to pieces and throwing the
scraps at the village, as if challenging the noble insurrectionary
proletariats.
“Dogs,” he cried, “receive this with my saliva!”
The bits of paper were blown by the air, flying cheerfully like
butterflies playing. It was the Manifesto of September 23, 1911.
The first shadows of the night began to descend upon the valley. Through
the twilight could be seen a red flag rippling on top of a small house
in the village. It flaunted in white letters this inscription: “Land and
Liberty” The governor, the capitalist and the priest cried out, shaking
their fists towards the village:
“Nest of vipers, we will soon crush you!”
The last brushstrokes of the sun still shone, emitted from the West
while disappearing. The frogs began their customary serenade, free,
happy, ignorant of the miseries that make men suffer. In the ash tree, a
pair of mocking birds sang to each other of their free love, without
judges, without priests, without clerks. The gentle beauty of the hour
invited the human heart to expose all its tortures, and to materialize
all its sentiments in a work of art.
Making the rocks shudder, a formidable cry rolled through the dale: “Who
lives?”
The governor, the capitalist, and the priest trembled, foreseeing their
end. The night had finally come, shrouding everything in blackness. The
mocking birds hushed up; the frogs quieted down; a gust of wind stirred
the boughs of the ash in a sinister manner. In the awful darkness, a
resonating, fateful cry returned “Who lives!”
The three pillars of society remembered all their crimes in a second:
they had enjoyed all the delicacies of life at the expense of the
suffering of humble people. They had sustained the ignorance and misery
of humanity, in order to satisfy their appetites.
A sound of energetic footsteps drew closer to them. It was the soldiers
of the people, the soldiers of the Social Revolution. A discharge of
rifle shots felled the representatives of the hydra with three heads:
Authority, Capital, and the Church.