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 “The One True 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.
The One True Love
“Well, he may be the master, and good for him—let him enjoy 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 feel like it’s about to leap from my veins. Doesn’t he know she’s already my fiancée? Or is it that, even when we love as God wills it, we poor folk are still expected to lose?”
“Listen, Fermín, I’ve told you this because it’s already the talk of the village, and you should know. But be careful—don’t lose your head. The masters are always dangerous for farmhands like us, and the authorities will always take their side and throw us in jail to rot. That’s just how the law works—I’m telling you from experience…”
In the small, shabby tavern, wretched and stale-aired, the two strong, broad-shouldered men sat with their hats pushed down to the middle of their foreheads, speaking in fervent tones. Fermín, the younger of the two, had straight black hair that shaded his energetic, sun-weathered face, with a thin mustache tracing his lips. He worked as a farmhand on Señor Oviedo’s hacienda, 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, was also a farmhand at the hacienda. 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 guarapo with a yellowish hue to cool off, having returned from the railway station, where they had gone before dawn to dispatch the fruit to the city.
The village plaza lay deserted. A few timid, clear chimes rang out, like the voices of children.
The two farmhands 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 brimming with magnificent, exuberant nature.
As the descent continued, the appearance of the ground transformed, presenting up close a marvel of vegetation. Rounding a final curve, the fragrant orchards grew lush and dense, lining the narrow, damp path with trees heavy with ripe capulí fruit and yellow, round, enticing pears. 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 shade beneath the trees.
Sweating from their walk, Fermín and Ricardo made their way through the orchards on their return from the village. Fermín was eager to see Martina, to tell her about Señor Gustavo and to warn her that gossip was starting to spread in the village—something he would never tolerate…
Sultán’s clear, resonant bark rang out, announcing the arrival of the two friends at the cabin. Martina came out to greet them.
She wasn’t expecting visitors at this hour.
She was an exquisite girl, the flower of the hacienda. Her delicate, gentle beauty seemed to emanate from her large, luminous, 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.”
“Are you coming from delivering 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 farmhand’s voice trembled, and at times, tears welled in his eyes. He spoke with the raw emotion of simple, almost primitive men who cannot grasp complicated matters and for whom love means a man and a woman giving their hearts wholly to one another, without reserve, as God wills it and the law of nature decrees.
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.
It had become unbearable. Each time Fermín caught sight of the master, the young master, from afar—so primped, so vain, his face powdered and painted like a woman’s, with his affected, exaggerated mannerisms, strutting across those rich, fertile lands teeming with life, lands he barely knew, lands he had never made fruitful with the sweat of his own body or the exertion of his muscles—Fermín’s entire peasant soul twisted with rage. Of course, Fermín had no doubt about Martina; she loved him passionately, with all her heart. But the master, the lord, was always a threat. And, worse still, he was so smooth-talking, so glib, so lavish with sweet words that, without her realizing it, he could easily beguile a girl as candid, as simple, as fond of pleasant conversation as her…
And now, as he did every day without fail—on any pretext—Gustavo had come to Martina’s hut and talked with her for a long while. For some time, Fermín had noticed a certain change in his fiancée; it wasn’t that she was falling out of love with him—of course not! But there was something he couldn’t quite explain. She seemed a little sad, distracted, as if lost in thoughts of far-off, unattainable things…
From the doorway, the young man watched as the hacienda’s owner vanished down the road. If only the earth would split open and swallow that accursed man! If only the road would come alive and gape wide 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.
“You’re going to tell me what Gustavo said to you.”
“Nothing, just silly little things—things that don’t matter.”
Her trembling voice betrayed the lie. Fermín pressed her further.
“You’ll tell me everything, Martina. If not, I’ll know what I must do.”
“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, that wasn’t so.
How could she deceive Fermín? He was deep in her heart, so deeply that she herself hardly knew where. And if she sometimes listened to Gustavo, well… he was… kind. 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, “fanciful” 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 had 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 pulse within him—a life rooted in strength: master of muscle, conqueror of hostile land. A life of grueling, relentless toil, worth far more—infinitely more—than the frivolities and saccharine airs of the refined young master, that weakling. 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. They burst upon her strawberry lips like triumphant hymns, like glorious prayers offered up to Nature herself—fertile and without equal.
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 sintió latir en sí toda su vida de hombre fuerte, de dominador del músculo, de vencedor de la tierra hostil, toda su vida de faena dura, de trabajo incesante que valía más, mucho más que las zarandajas y los almíbares del señorito debilucho y elegante. Y, con gesto decidido tomó a Martina entre sus brazos y le devoró a besos, besos quemantes, besos de fuego, besos de un amor divino y humano que estallaban en la boca de fresa de la moza, como himnos triunfales, como oraciones gloriosas a la Naturaleza fecunda y única.
Quito, Febrero 3 de 1921.