October Revolution in Chile?

THREE DAYS before the world was stunned to hear that a third of Chile’s electorate had given the winning margin to a Marxist-Leninist, a curious news item appeared on the front page of Peru’s leading newspaper. El Comercio. It seems that a Chilean ship on the smuggling run from Panama was foundering in a heavy sea off Peru’s southern coast. Rescuers who talked with the crew of various nationalities before the Puel- che was abandoned, described the final scene aboard the ill-fated ship. The Chileans had held a ceremony on deck that jeopardized the lowering of the lifeboats. They had insisted on voting, each sailor writing on a slip of paper the name of the candidate of his choice—Alessandri, Tomic, Allende—placing the ballot in a sealed bottle, and tossing it into the Pacific in the hope that it would somehow reach Chile in time to be counted by September 4. It was reported that the Panamanians, Peruvians and others aboard had watched the Chileans conduct this rite “in shocked disbelief but not without grudging respect.”

Chile, three days later, had indeed gone to the polls in that spirit of reverence for constitutional legality which has made it unique among Latin American countries. On election day I was driving west from Santiago, the capital, toward Valparaiso, the principal port. A friend from the Peace Corps had hired a car for me, to keep a luncheon date with Pablo Neruda. Chile’s great poet had been the Communist candidate for the presidency until his party several months ago decided to make a Popular Front again as in 1964, with the Socialist leader Salvador Allende once more the standard- bearer. Neruda might or might not remember our date, so I decided to check his Santiago apartment before setting out —if I could find the number. Where else but in Chile would a deferential desk clerk at the best hotel have solved my problem thus: “Shall 1 call Communist Party headquarters for you, sir? They must have his number.” All along the way to the coast, in contrast to the searing drought of two years ago that had withered President Frei’s fading Christian Democratic dream, everything was spring green. Pear and plum trees blossomed against the Andean snow. What were trees loaded with oranges and lemons doing side by side with peaches and apples—those fruits we consider God’s compensation for our Puritan winters?

SR

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THREE DAYS before the world was stunned to hear that a third of Chile’s electorate had given the winning margin to a Marxist-Leninist, a curious news item appeared on the front page of Peru’s leading newspaper. El Comercio. It seems that a Chilean ship on the smuggling run from Panama was foundering in a heavy sea off Peru’s southern coast. Rescuers who talked with the crew of various nationalities before the Puel- che was abandoned, described the final scene aboard the ill-fated ship. The Chileans had held a ceremony on deck that jeopardized the lowering of the lifeboats. They had insisted on voting, each sailor writing on a slip of paper the name of the candidate of his choice—Alessandri, Tomic, Allende—placing the ballot in a sealed bottle, and tossing it into the Pacific in the hope that it would somehow reach Chile in time to be counted by September 4. It was reported that the Panamanians, Peruvians and others aboard had watched the Chileans conduct this rite “in shocked disbelief but not without grudging respect.”

Chile, three days later, had indeed gone to the polls in that spirit of reverence for constitutional legality which has made it unique among Latin American countries. On election day I was driving west from Santiago, the capital, toward Valparaiso, the principal port. A friend from the Peace Corps had hired a car for me, to keep a luncheon date with Pablo Neruda. Chile’s great poet had been the Communist candidate for the presidency until his party several months ago decided to make a Popular Front again as in 1964, with the Socialist leader Salvador Allende once more the standard- bearer. Neruda might or might not remember our date, so I decided to check his Santiago apartment before setting out —if I could find the number. Where else but in Chile would a deferential desk clerk at the best hotel have solved my problem thus: “Shall 1 call Communist Party headquarters for you, sir? They must have his number.” All along the way to the coast, in contrast to the searing drought of two years ago that had withered President Frei’s fading Christian Democratic dream, everything was spring green. Pear and plum trees blossomed against the Andean snow. What were trees loaded with oranges and lemons doing side by side with peaches and apples—those fruits we consider God’s compensation for our Puritan winters?