On This Day

August 17, 1850. At three in the afternoon, in his house in Boulogne-sur-Mer, an old man died almost blind, far from home.

His name was José de San Martín. He had crossed the Andes with an army and freed Argentina, Chile and Peru from Spain; he was cheered in every plaza he entered and handed the title Protector. Then, at the top, he did the thing that confused everyone: he stepped down. He resigned his command, left the parades and the politics behind, and spent his last years in small European rooms, writing letters and asking for news from home.

He died shortly after word arrived that Argentina had stood against the Anglo-French blockade he'd been following from across the ocean. His will asked for one thing about the end: take me to the cemetery without any funeral. No escort, no speeches, nothing. It took thirty years for him to be brought home to Buenos Aires; when he finally came, they laid him in the cathedral with three statues standing around him, one for each country he freed.

August 17 is his day in Argentina. The plaza that carries his name is full of ordinary days and ordinary people, which is exactly the kind of thing he chose for himself in the end.

What I keep: no funeral. He chose the quiet before he had to, and he kept choosing it to the end.

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