María Clara Character Analysis

“O,” it said, shaking disconsolately, “I loved a young woman, the daughter of a priest, pure as light, as a just-opened lotus flower. The young priest of Abydos coveted her as well and plotted a mutiny using my name and several papyruses I had dedicated to my beloved. The mutiny unfolded just as a furious Cambyses returned from the disasters of his unfortunate campaign. I was branded a rebel and imprisoned. When I was able to escape, during the pursuit I died in Lake Moeris. From eternity I watched as imposture triumphed, I saw as the priest of Abydos pursued the poor virgin day and night, even after she had taken refuge in a temple of Isis on the Island of Philoe. I saw him pursue her and hunt her down even into the caverns, drive her mad from terror and suffering, like a giant bat and a white dove.”

Simoun suddenly stopped speaking, as if he had been cut off. Somewhere inside him a voice asked if he, Simoun, were not indeed part of the trash of that damned city, perhaps even its most destructive ferment. And as the dead rise at the sound of the eternal trumpet, a thousand bloody ghosts, desperate shadows of murdered men, dishonored women, fathers torn from their families, vices engendered and fostered, virtues rejected now rose up in the echoes of that mysterious question. For the first time in his career as a criminal, since Havana, when through vice and bribery he had decided to create a means to carry out his plans, a man without faith, without patriotism, without conscience, for the first time in that era of his life something inside of him came out and protested his actions.

Rest in peace, sad daughter of my wretched country! Bury in your tomb the charms of youth, withered in their prime. When a people cannot provide its maidens with a peaceful home, a shelter of holy freedom, when a man can leave only dubious words to a widow, tears to his mother, slavery to his children, it’s better to condemn you all to perpetual chastity, drowning in your womanhood a future, damned generation.

“O,” it said, shaking disconsolately, “I loved a young woman, the daughter of a priest, pure as light, as a just-opened lotus flower. The young priest of Abydos coveted her as well and plotted a mutiny using my name and several papyruses I had dedicated to my beloved. The mutiny unfolded just as a furious Cambyses returned from the disasters of his unfortunate campaign. I was branded a rebel and imprisoned. When I was able to escape, during the pursuit I died in Lake Moeris. From eternity I watched as imposture triumphed, I saw as the priest of Abydos pursued the poor virgin day and night, even after she had taken refuge in a temple of Isis on the Island of Philoe. I saw him pursue her and hunt her down even into the caverns, drive her mad from terror and suffering, like a giant bat and a white dove.”

Simoun suddenly stopped speaking, as if he had been cut off. Somewhere inside him a voice asked if he, Simoun, were not indeed part of the trash of that damned city, perhaps even its most destructive ferment. And as the dead rise at the sound of the eternal trumpet, a thousand bloody ghosts, desperate shadows of murdered men, dishonored women, fathers torn from their families, vices engendered and fostered, virtues rejected now rose up in the echoes of that mysterious question. For the first time in his career as a criminal, since Havana, when through vice and bribery he had decided to create a means to carry out his plans, a man without faith, without patriotism, without conscience, for the first time in that era of his life something inside of him came out and protested his actions.

Rest in peace, sad daughter of my wretched country! Bury in your tomb the charms of youth, withered in their prime. When a people cannot provide its maidens with a peaceful home, a shelter of holy freedom, when a man can leave only dubious words to a widow, tears to his mother, slavery to his children, it’s better to condemn you all to perpetual chastity, drowning in your womanhood a future, damned generation.