On September 8, 1911, Pope Pius X decreed the coronation [1] of Our Lady of Mount Carmel of Mendoza. For Christendom, this was a significant event not only because the Virgin was deeply intertwined with regional history, but also because General José de San Martín had adopted her as his standard-bearer. He even bequeathed her his staff of office—a fact that is part of this article. But that wasn't all. In 1861, a tremendous earthquake struck, which, among other disasters, destroyed the Church of San Francisco where the image and the staff were located. We don't know exactly what happened to them, but very soon afterward, according to chroniclers of the event, the Virgin was rescued intact, considered a miracle, and was taken to safety; perhaps the same occurred with the staff. From there began a journey that led the image of the Virgin to the new church, built in 1891, where it remains. The staff followed a different path.
Traditional historians in Mendoza, well into the 20th century—religious figures or those with a distinctly Christian and conservative bent—focused their interpretations on the exaltation of these events, portraying them as a genuine miracle. And while no one photographed the image's condition or its recovery [2], those who described it skillfully used language to avoid providing precise details, because none existed. However, it is inconceivable that both artifacts were pulled intact from beneath the rubble. The collapse of a colonial church, the most important of its time, resulted in tons of debris that have not yet been fully removed. Archaeology has confirmed this: the buried objects were entombed under hundreds of tons of rubble, resulting in sections of masonry, vaults, and walls, sometimes three meters thick, reaching a depth of over two meters. No one at that precise moment, with or without assistance, could have excavated and moved those blocks that crushed everything beneath them. Nor did subsequent history clarify, at least not rigorously, whether the image is the same or another similar one among the several that existed—which would seem most likely—since what mattered was not the materiality but the significance. And it is not the purpose of these lines to unravel such a mystery.
In the Virgin's new niche, in 1911, the staff of General San Martín, which had been given to her almost a century earlier and whose whereabouts were unknown, was placed next to her. That story is confusing because sometimes passions are stronger than truths; undoubtedly, it is very likely that it is the original, although today more conclusive proof would be required than what someone said and another contradicted over the many years that have passed. It is undeniable that the general did give his staff, but nothing proves that it was that one. What is certain is that it was placed there, and that gesture had and has a strong historical, religious, and political significance.
Around that time, in anticipation of the coronation and the display of the staff, a religious author of high rank, though anonymous—which is quite unusual—published a book titled Historical Notes on Our Lady of Mount Carmel of Cuyo and the Franciscan Convent of Mendoza. Undated on the cover, it was published by Alfa y Omega Publishing House [located at 573 Callao Street; the book has 191 pages with illustrations], a Catholic publishing house that is still active. Given the subject matter's deep significance for the faithful, it is at least strange that the author's name, the year of publication, and the authorization from the religious authorities (the "Imprimatur") are omitted, replaced by a single line in tiny print that reads "With the necessary licenses." The book's purpose was to provide an apologetic history of the Virgin's image and the miracle of its rescue, her role with the army under General José de San Martín, and the delivery of the staff, all arranged for the coronation event. It was the construction of a history that intertwined nationality and the Church, and this was done with the hope that it would be preserved for the future. Who could doubt it with the Virgin Mary and Saint Martin at stake? The narrative, transformed into printed text, closed off, or attempted to close off, any possible dissent or criticism.
However, something happened. A liberal historian, also from Mendoza, Agustín Álvarez [1857-1914], called everything into question. He didn't dispute the importance of the Virgin Mary—he was Catholic—nor the donation of the Liberator's staff—the documents are authentic—but rather whether that image and that staff were the originals. The controversy centered on the authenticity of what the book claimed, on the handling of the documents, and on the information clearly biased by a religious rather than an academic perspective. The idea was to reconcile the available data with the material facts. He wrote: "Poor Pope with so many negative collaborators who think his faithful are idiots." That's how directly he attacked what he saw as a brutal manipulation of the data. Today, those notes in the book are a monument to science and academia, and when he committed them to paper in a private document, he didn't hesitate to insult and accuse whomever he deemed responsible.
Álvarez surely envisioned a later publication, enriched with a longer text written in a diplomatic tone, though without abandoning his truth. But he died shortly afterward without ever publishing those ideas; in fact, he only managed to write two pages. Perhaps he didn't because he couldn't, or perhaps because he was an older man who had been a general, lawyer, congressman, and writer, a staunchly liberal Catholic, and saying all that meant confronting Mendoza society, the army, and the entire clergy—no easy task. The fact is that in a copy of the anonymous book, he wrote his opinions, beginning his critical judgment with a scathing statement: "This work is a monument to fraud."
Fortunately, the story didn't end there: someone found that annotated book and continued with the ideas expressed in the first pages. We don't know who it was, but instead of writing with a quill pen, they used a ballpoint pen, which places it after 1934. Although this writing instrument was invented in 1888 by John J. Loud, its widespread use came with the renowned Biro brothers, who added ink made with a special chemical composition that allowed for its mass adoption.
A series of isolated events led to this copy, altered by two critical intellectuals, arriving at Hilario Auction House. In my case, always interested in the history of the Mendoza earthquake and its ruins [3], I was captivated by this bibliographic gem and its surprising handwritten notes. Its contents are part of the San Martín saga, the Catholic religion, and the tragic and glorious past of that province. It is a document of interest to all Argentinians as an example of the use of the past and its symbols.
Notes:
1] On that day, the image of the Virgin received a gold crown by order of Pope Pius X; since that event, her feast day has been celebrated every September 8th.
2] It is known that Adolfo Alexander, the daguerreotypist, had set up his photography studio in this city, but before the earthquake, he left Mendoza. His preliminary survey, a set of photographs taken between 1858 and 1860, has even disappeared, but that is another story that still intrigues his great-great-grandson, the historian and Hilario's collaborator, Abel Alexander.
3] Daniel Schavelzon, *History of an Earthquake: Mendoza, 1861*. Buenos Aires: Los Cuatro Vientos Publishing House, 2007, available online.
* Special for Hilario. Arts, Letters, Crafts