Translated to English by Richard Gabela, completed on November 16, 2024, from the original work “EL AMOR ÚNICO” by Luis Aníbal Sánchez (1902–1922) of Ecuador. I have translated the title of the story as “An Unparalleled Love.” The story takes place in rural Ecuador, where social class distinctions between landowners (“masters”) and laborers were very pronounced in the early 20th century (the story is dated 1921). This post includes my English translation, followed by a glossary, a translator’s note, and the original Spanish version of the story.
An Unparalleled Love
“Well, he may be the master, and good for him with all his money. I wouldn’t want to envy him, because for me, a clean little house and a bite to eat every day are enough. But he’d better not look at Martina like that, because it makes my blood boil. Doesn’t he know she’s already my fiancée? Or is it that, even when we love properly, the way God intended, we poor folk are always expected to lose?”
“Listen, Fermín, I’m telling you this because people in the village are already talking—you need to stay vigilant. But be cautious—stay calm and don’t lose your head. The masters are always dangerous for laborers like us, and the authorities will always side with them, leaving us to rot in jail. That’s just how the law works—I’m speaking from experience…”
In the wretched, stale-aired tavern, the two strong, broad-shouldered men sat with their hats pulled low over their foreheads, speaking in fervent tones. Fermín, the younger of the two, had straight black hair that shaded his energetic face, weathered by the sun, with a thin mustache along his lips. He worked as a laborer on Señor Oviedo’s estate, and everyone in the village knew about his engagement to Martina, the girl from the San Diego side.
The other man, an odd bachelor notorious for his brazenness and biting wit, also worked on the estate. They got along like brothers and lived in neighboring houses. It was noon—the languid, monotonous noon of the village, with a sun so hot it seemed to set fire to the blood.
The two men were drinking golden guarapo to cool off, having returned from the railway station, where they had gone before dawn to send fruit off to the city.
The village plaza lay deserted. Some bells chimed, timid and clear, like children’s voices.
The two laborers paused their conversation and stood, holding their hats in hand with reverence.
At the Angelus hour, the spirit seeks serenity and purification, setting aside worldly thoughts to recite the humble, symbolic prayer of the Annunciation—a moment eternally longed for by every heart.
Martina’s house stood on the riverbank. To reach it, you had to make a long descent along a narrow, uneven path, streaked with stones, perched above a steep drop that seemed impassable from a distance. The hard, yellow earth at the top was barren and unwelcoming. From there, you could catch a glimpse of the green valley below, vibrant with life and lush, magnificent nature.
As you descended, the landscape transformed, revealing up close a marvel of lush vegetation. Rounding the final curve, the fragrant orchards grew dense and vibrant, lining the narrow, damp path with capulí trees heavy with ripe fruit and round golden pears, enticing and sweet. Here and there, hidden within the densest foliage, little rural shacks appeared suddenly, crowned with plumes of bluish smoke rising from their cone-shaped thatched roofs and tiny, narrow windows. Around them, brightly colored chickens pecked at the rich, freshly tilled earth, doves foraged for stray kernels of corn, and a drowsy dog sought the shade of the trees.
Sweating from their walk, Fermín and Ricardo were now making their way through the orchards on their return from the village. Fermín was eager to see Martina, to tell her about Señor Gustavo and let her know that people in the village were starting to gossip—something he would never tolerate…
Sultán’s sharp, clear bark rang out, announcing their arrival at the cabin. Martina stepped outside to greet them.
She wasn’t expecting visitors at this hour.
She was a lovely girl, the flower of the estate. She had a gentle, delicate beauty that shone in her big, bright, innocent black eyes.
“Well! I wasn’t expecting you, Fermín,” she said, then turned to address Ricardo. “And you, Don Ricardo—how’s life treating you?”
“Getting by, child, with good health, thanks to God’s will.”
“Did you just drop off the fruit?”
“We left for the station at dawn. The harvest isn’t bad, and the master can’t complain about this year. A good year, rare as they come, thanks to God and the weather we’ve had.”
They went into the little house, except for Ricardo, who, unusually tired, lay down outside by the fruit sacks—his familiarity with the family allowed him such liberty.
Martina’s mother had gone to Las Juntas to do some errands for Doña Juana, who needed things for the Civil Judge. She’d be back soon, maybe within the hour.
Fermín, both gloomy and in love, sat next to Martina, who smiled at him warmly.
“Martina, I need to talk to you about us. People in town are talking about Señor Gustavo…”
The laborer’s voice trembled, and at moments, tears welled in his eyes. He spoke with the raw emotion of simple, straightforward men who don’t understand complicated matters and for whom love means giving one’s heart completely, without reserve, as God intends and as the law of nature mandates.
He spoke with force—impetuous and vehement—about his immense love for the girl who would be his, despite everything and everyone—especially the wealthy master, so devoid of heart, who believed that because they were poor servants, they didn’t have the same right to love as others did.
It had become unbearable. Whenever Fermín glimpsed the master from afar—the young master, overdressed and prideful, his face powdered and painted like a woman’s, with his affected mannerisms, strolling across those rich, fertile lands teeming with life, lands he barely knew and had never made fruitful through his own sweat or muscle—Fermín’s whole peasant soul twisted in rage. Not that he doubted Martina; she loved him passionately, with all her heart. But the master, the lord, loomed as a constant threat. And worse, he was so smooth-talking, so glib, so full of pretty phrases that, effortlessly, he could charm a girl as candid and simple as Martina, who loved nothing more than pleasant conversation…
And now, as he did every day, as always, Gustavo had found some pretext to visit Martina’s hut and had spoken with her for a long while. From a distance, Fermín had begun to notice a change in his fiancée; it wasn’t that she loved him any less—of that he was certain! But there was something he couldn’t fully understand. She seemed a little sad, distracted, as though her mind were caught up in thoughts of faraway, unreachable things…
From the doorway, the young man watched as the estate owner vanished down the path. If only the earth would open itself and swallow that accursed man! If only the path would come alive and part widely to aid Fermín…
Proud and mighty, the young master rode away on his fine horse, admired by all who saw him. Every now and then, he turned to look back at the cabin.
Martina, looking slightly pale, approached her beloved.
“Tell me what Gustavo said to you.”
“Nothing, just small, unimportant things.”
Her trembling voice betrayed the lie. Fermín pressed her further.
“You’ll tell me everything, Martina. Either you tell me or… I’ll do what I must.”
“Nothing, nothing, I promise.”
“You’re lying, you’re lying, because you don’t love me—and maybe you never did.”
The girl shook her head. No, it wasn’t like that.
How could she deceive Fermín? He was deep in her heart, so deeply she hardly knew where. And if she sometimes listened to Gustavo, well… But Fermín, her only love, would forgive her. These were just harmless whims of hers, maybe foolishness, but that’s simply how she was—without malice, without even thinking. The master spoke of such sweet, tender things that sometimes she felt them deeply, with all her heart and emotion… Gustavo’s words, which moved her so, enchanted her dreamy, “silly” spirit, as her mother would say. His words were so sweet they sounded like music.
Fermín listened, his heart aching. It was just as he’d feared! Gustavo was luring her with his honeyed words, his polished talk that worked like a perfect trap… And Martina was drawn to men like that, men who said such pretty things—things learned from books.
His heart told him what he had to do. Martina, shaken and fearful, had fallen silent.
Her fiancé’s sorrow and misfortune troubled her.
Fermín felt his whole life pulsing within him—a life as a man of strength, master of muscle, conqueror of hostile land; a life of grueling, relentless work worth far more, so much more than the trifles and sweet words of the weak, elegant young master. With a decisive gesture, he took Martina in his arms and covered her with kisses—burning kisses, kisses of fire, kisses filled with a love both divine and human that burst upon her strawberry lips like triumphant hymns, like glorious prayers to a Nature both fertile and unparalleled.
Quito, February 3, 1921
Glossary
- capulí – A type of cherry native to South America (Prunus serotina), also known as black cherry or wild cherry
- guarapo – A fermented or unfermented drink made from sugarcane juice, common in Latin America
- Angelus – A Catholic prayer recited three times daily (dawn, noon, and dusk), accompanied by church bells
- Annunciation – In Christian (particularly Catholic) tradition, the moment when the angel Gabriel announced to the Virgin Mary that she would bear Jesus. The Angelus prayer commemorates this event. In the story, this reference helps establish both the time of day (noon) and the Catholic cultural context of rural Ecuador.
- Don – A Spanish honorific title for men, showing respect or status, similar to “Sir”
- Doña – A Spanish honorific title for women, equivalent to “Lady” or “Madam”
- Las Juntas – A place name, likely referring to a local village or meeting point
- Señor – Spanish honorific title for men, equivalent to “Mister” or “Sir”
Translator’s Note: I chose to translate “El Amor Único” by Luis Aníbal Sánchez because it offers a poignant exploration of love, class, and power dynamics in rural Ecuador. Written in 1921 by a young and promising writer whose life was tragically cut short at the age of 20, the story captivated me with its raw emotional intensity and its depiction of the struggles faced by working-class characters. Sánchez’s prose is rich yet unpretentious, blending lyrical descriptions of nature with heartfelt dialogue that reflects the social tensions of his time. What drew me most was the universality of its themes: love, jealousy, and the desire for dignity, which resonate far beyond its setting. By translating this story, I hope to introduce English-speaking readers to Sánchez’s evocative voice and to honor his contribution to Ecuadorian literature, which deserves greater recognition. The story was published posthumously in 1931 in Revista América, which can be found here.
EL AMOR UNICO
Luis Aníbal Sánchez
Damos a nuestros lectores este cuento inédito de Luis Aníbal Sánchez, ese adolescente que fué algo más que una promesa para las letras ecuatorianas. La mejor parte de su obra se halla en su revista “La Idea”.
De todo escribió Sánchez: críticas, cuentos, poemas en prosa. Sólo se publicó un libro recibido con júbilo por la crítica del Exterior: Palabras con Flordelina. Su padre, el Sr. José Pompeyo Sánchez, colecciona con afecto, la muy apreciable producción de Luis Aníbal Sánchez, cuyo nombre recuerda el de una familia de literatos y poetas: Quintiliano Sánchez, Manuel María Sánchez.
—Bueno, el señor será el señor, y provecho tenga de sus dineros. No quisiera envidiárselos, porque, para mí, basta con la casuca siempre aseada y el bocado que no me falte cada día. Pero a Martina que no la mire así, porque la sangre se me quiere saltar por las venas. Acaso no sabe él, que ya es mi novia? O es que el querer aunque sea como Dios manda, hemos de perder los pobres?
—Mira, Fermín, ya te lo he dicho porque es notorio en el pueblo y para que te pongas alerta, pero cuida de ser prudente, y nada de exaltaciones, son peligrosos, siempre, para los gañanes los señores y allá hay una autoridad para darles la razón a ellos y ponernos a pudrir en la cárcel. La ley es así, te lo digo por experiencia…
En la tabernuca mísera y de aire pesado, los dos hombres, fuertes, de anchas espaldas, con el sombrero metido hasta la mitad de la frente, hablaban con fervor. Fermín, más mozo, tenía la cabellera lacia y negra que le sombreaba el rostro enérgico, curtidos por el sol, orillados los labios con el bigote ralo… Era peón en la hacienda del señor Oviedo y en la aldea todo el mundo sabía su noviazgo con Martina, la del lado de San Diego.
El otro un solterón extraño, de mala fama por su desenfado y sarcástico decir, era, también, gañán de la hacienda. Se llevaban bien, como hermanos y tenían las casas vecinas. Era el mediodía, el mediodía pueblerino, tan cansado y monótono, con un sol que encendía y que ponía fuego en la sangre.
Los dos hombres tomaban, para refrescarse, el guarapo amarillento, de vuelta de la estación ferroviaria a donde fueran aún antes de que no había salido el sol a despachar la fruta para la ciudad.
La plaza aldeana se hallaba desierta. Sonaron unas campanadas tímidas, claras, como voces de niños.
Los dos gañanes, interrumpiendo la parla, se pusieron de pie, reverentes con el sombrero en la mano.
Cuando toca la hora del ángelus, el espíritu debe serenizarse y purificarse y echar de sí las ideas del mundo, para rezar la oración sencilla y simbólica de esta anunciación anhelada, perennemente, por todos los corazones….
La casa de Martina, se hallaba a la orilla del río. Había, para llegar a ella, que efectuar un largo descenso por aquel camino angosto y veteado, a trechos, de piedras, que estaba sobre el abismo y que de lejos, hubiera parecido impracticable. La tierra dura, estéril, amarillenta, era hostil en la altura. De allí el paisaje del fondo era insinuado en su verdor, con su luminosidad, con sus huellas de vida, de naturaleza exuberante y magnífica.
Conforme se iba bajando, el aspecto del suelo cambiaba para presentar más de cerca un prodigio de vegetación. Vencida una última curva, las huertas exuberantes, aromadas, tupidas, se mostraban limitando el sendero estrecho y húmedo con los árboles lozanos de capulíes ahora maduros, de peras amarillas, redondas, incitadoras. Aquí y allá perdidas entre la fronda espesísima, las casuchas campestres surgían de improviso con un penacho azulado de humo, con la techumbre pajiza en forma de cono, con las ventanas aplastadas, diminutas, decorados los contornos con la gaya policromía de las gallinas que picoteaban la tierra jugosa y removida, de las palmas que buscaban en el suelo los perdidos granos de maíz, mientras el perro somnoliento iba en pos de la sombra de los árboles.
Fermín y Ricardo, sudorosos caminaban ahora ya por las huertas de regreso del pueblo. El muchacho le quería ver a Martina para decirle lo del señor Gustavo y manifestarle que en la aldea empezaba la murmuración de la gente, que él nunca consentiría…
El claro y resonante ladrar de Sultán, anunció en la cabaña la llegada de los dos amigos. Martina salió a recibirles.
Le sorprendía la visita a tales horas.
Era una muchacha primorosa, la flor de la hacienda. Tenía una belleza, delicada y suave, que se desbordaba por los ojazos negros, luminosos, ingenuos.
—¡Vaya! que no te esperaba, Fermín.
—¿Y la vida don Ricardo?
—Pasándola, chiquilla, con la voluntad de Dios, con salud.
—¿Vienen de dejar la fruta?
—A la madrugada salimos para la estación. No está mala la cosecha y el señor no puede quejarse de este año. Buen año, como pocos, Dios mediante y el tiempo que hemos tenido.
Entraron a la casuca, con excepción de Ricardo, que, cansado como pocas veces se tendió afuera, en el suelo, junto a los sacos de fruta. Para eso era de confianza en la familia.
La madre de Martina se había marchado a las Juntas por unos encargos que le hiciera doña Juana para el Juez Civil. Ya volverá pronto, quizás entre una hora.
Fermín entre hosco y enamorado, fué a sentarse al lado de Martina que se sonreía con cariño.
—Martina, he de hablarte de nuestras cosas. En el pueblo la gente murmura del señor Gustavo….
La voz le temblaba al gañán y, a ratos, se le saltaban las lágrimas. Hablaba con toda la emoción de los hombres sencillos, casi primitivos, que no entienden de complejidades ni de problemas y para quienes el amor es quererse de hombre a mujer con todo su corazón, con toda su energía, con toda su voluntad, como Dios manda y lo impone la ley.
Hablaba con fuerza, impetuoso, vehemente, con su inmenso cariño por la muchacha, que será de él, pese a todos y más al señor que era rico, pero tan sin corazón y creyendo que porque ellos eran siervos y pobres, no tenían, como todos, el derecho a amarse.
Ya era insoportable. Cuando veía de lejos al señor, al señorito, tan emperejilado, tan fatuo, con su cara llena de polvo y afeite como una mujer, con sus amaneramientos cursis, paseándose por esas tierras ricas y fértiles, plenas de savia que él apenas conocía, que no las fructificaba con el sudor de su cuerpo, ni con el esfuerzo de sus músculos, toda su alma de campesino se retorcía de ira. Claro, Fermín no dudaba de Martina, le quería a él, ardientemente, con todo su corazón; mas el señor, el amo, era siempre un peligro. Y, además, tan decidor, tan labioso, tan pródigo de bonitas palabras, que, al fin, sin sentirlo, le embelesaban a la muchacha tan cándida, tan sencilla, tan buena amiga de plática agradable…
Y ahora, como todos los días, como siempre, Gustavo, con cualquier pretexto, había venido a la choza de Martina y había hablado, largamente, con ella. Fermín notara desde atrás cierto cambio con su novia; no era desamor, ¡claro! pero había algo que no acertaba a explicarse. Estaba un poco triste, distraída, como pensando en cosas lejanas e inalcanzables….
Desde el dintel de la puerta, el mozo veía que se alejaba por el camino, el dueño de la hacienda. ¡Si se abriera la tierra y se lo tragara maldito! ¡Si el sendero pudiera agrandarse y cobrar vida para ayudar a Fermín!…
Dominador, altivo, orgulloso, el señorito se alejaba, en aquel caballo magnífico, admiración de las gentes. De vez en vez, regresaba a mirar a la cabaña.
Martina, ligeramente pálida, se acercó al amado.
—Me vas a contarme lo que te ha dicho Gustavo.
—Pues nada, cosas tan insignificantes y sin importancia.
En la voz trémula se le notaba la mentira. Fermín insistió.
—Me dirás todo aquello, Martina. Sí, no, yo sabré lo que he de hacer.
—Nada, nada, te lo prometo.
—Has de mentir, has de mentir, porque no me quieres y, acaso, nunca me has querido.
La chiquilla se conmovió. No, no era así.
¡Ni cómo había de engañarlo a Fermín! Estaba dentro, en su pecho, tan hondo, que ella misma no sabía donde, y si escuchó alguna vez a Gustavo, que era… bueno. Mas Fermín, el único amado le perdonaría. Eran caprichos, cosas raras de Martina, quizá locuras; mas ella era así, sin intención, sin pensarlo. El señor le hablaba de cosas tan dulces, tan tiernas que, a veces, ella las sentía con todo su sentimiento, con toda su emoción… Sugestionábanle tanto a su espíritu ilusionado, “bobalicón”, como decía su madre aquellas frases de Gustavo que tanto le conmovían… Eran sus frases tan dulces, que le sonaban a música.
Fermín le escuchaba dolorosamente. ¡Lo que él había temido! ¡Claro! Gustavo le engañaba a la chiquilla con la miel de sus palabras, con sus retóricas que eran magnífico anzuelo… Y a Martina le gustaba hombres así, que dijeran cosas tan bonitas, aquellas que se aprenden en los libros.
Su corazón le aconsejó el recurso supremo. Martina, enternecida, temerosa, se había callado.
Preocupábale la mala fortuna y el pesar de su novio.
Fermín felt his whole life pulsing within him—a life as a man of strength, master of muscle, conqueror of hostile land; a life of grueling, relentless work—worth far more, so much more than the trinkets and sweet words of the weak, elegant young master. And with a decisive gesture, he took Martina in his arms and devoured her with kisses—burning kisses, fiery kisses, kisses filled with a love both divine and human that burst on her strawberry lips like triumphant hymns, like glorious prayers to a Nature both fertile and without equal.
Quito, Febrero 3 de 1921.