THE CONVENT OF THE PURÍSIMA CONCEPCIÓN.
Whatever may be asserted to the contrary, a religion frequently
undergoes, unconsciously, the atmospheric influences of the country in
which it is professed; and while remaining the same fundamentally, the
forms vary infinitely, and make it change its aspect according as it
penetrates into countries where climates are different.
This may at the first glance appear a paradox; and yet, if our readers
will take the trouble to reflect, we doubt not but they will recognise
the justice and truth of our assertion.
In some countries, like Germany and England, where thick fogs brood
over the earth at certain periods of the year, the character of the
inhabitants is tinged by the state of the gloomy nature that surrounds
them. Their ideas assume a morose and mystical hue perfectly in harmony
with what they see and feel. They are serious, sad, and severe,
positive and material, because fog and cold remind them at every
moment that they must think of themselves, take care, and wrestle, so
to speak, with the abrupt and implacable nature which allows them no
respite. Hence come the egotism and personality, which destroy all
the poetry of religion which is so marvellously developed in southern
nations.
If we look further back, we shall find the difference even more
marked. For this purpose it is only necessary to compare Greek
mythology--Paganism, with its smiling images which deified vices and
passions, with the gloomy and terrible worship of Odin in Scandinavia,
or with that even more sanguinary paid to the god Teutates in the Gaul
of olden times, and in the sombre forests of Germany.
Can we deny the influence of the northern ice over the disciples of
Odin? Is not the savage majesty of the immense forests which sheltered
the priests of Teutates the principal cause of the mysteries which they
celebrated? And, lastly, is not the benignity of the Greek mythology
explained by the beauty of the sky in which it sprang up, the mildness
of the climate, the freshness of the shadows, and the ever renewing
charm of its magnificent landscapes?
The Catholic religion, which substitutes itself for all the rest, has
been, and still is, subjected to the action of the temperature of those
countries into which it has penetrated, and which it has fecundated.
In Chili it is, so to speak, entirely external. Its worship is composed
of numerous festivals pompously celebrated in churches glittering with
light, gold, silver, and precious stones, of interminable processions
performed under a reign of flowers, and clouds of incense which burn
uninterruptedly.
In this country, beloved of the sun, religion is full of love; the
ardent hearts that populate it do not trouble themselves at all about
theological discussions. They love God, the Virgin, and the saints with
the adoration, self-denial and impulse which they display in all their
actions.
Catholicism is changed with them, though they do not at all suspect
it, into a sort of Paganism, which does not account for its existence,
although that existence cannot be contested.
Thus they tacitly accord the same power to any saint as to deity; and
when the majority of them address their prayer to the Virgin, they do
not pray to Mary the Mother of our Saviour, but to Nuestra Señora de
los Dolores, Nuestra Señora del Carmen, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe,
Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, Nuestra Señora del Pilar, Nuestra Señora
de Guatananga, and ten thousand other Our ladies.
A Chilian woman will not hesitate to say, with perfect conviction, that
she is devoted to Nuestra Señora de la Sierra, because she is far more
powerful than Nuestra Señora del Carmen, and so on with the rest.
We remember hearing one day in the church of Nuestra Señora de la
Merced, at Pilar, a worthy hacendero praying to God the Father to
intercede for him with Nuestra Señora del Pilar, so as to obtain for
him a good harvest!
Novenas are kept and masses ordered for the slightest pretext. If a
Chilian lady be deserted by her lover, quick a mass to bring him back
to her side; if a man wish to avenge himself on one of his fellow men,
quick a mass that his revenge may be carried out!
There is also another way of insuring the protection of any saint, and
that is by making a vow. A young man who wishes his beloved lady to
give him a meeting, never fails to pledge himself by a vow addressed to
San Francisco or San Antonio to perform some pious deed, if the saint
will consent to advise the lady in his favour. And these practices must
not be taken for juggling; the people who accomplish them do so in
perfect good faith.
Such is the way in which the Catholic religion is understood in South
America.
In all the ex-Spanish colonies members of the clergy swarm, and we are
not afraid of being taxed with exaggeration when we assert that in
Chili they form at least one-fourth of the population. Now, the clergy
are composed of an infinite number of monks and nuns of every possible
form, species, and colour, Franciscans, Benedictines, Genovevans,
Barefooted Carmelites, Brothers of Mercy, Augustines, and many others
whose names have escaped us. As will be easily understood, these
religious communities, owing to their considerable number, are not paid
by the government, whose resources would not nearly suffice for their
support. Hence they are compelled to create a thousand trades, each
more ingenious than the other, in order to be able to exist.
In these countries--and there will be no difficulty in understanding
this--the clergy are excessively tolerant, for the very simple reason
that they have need of everybody, and if they committed the mistake of
alienating the inhabitants they would die of hunger in a fortnight.
It is worth while seeing in Chili the extension given to the trade in
indulgences. _Agnus Deis_, scapularies, blessed crosses, and miraculous
images; everything has its price, everything is sold. So much for a
prayer--so much for a confession--so much for a mass.
A Chilian sets out on a journey, and in order that no accident may
happen to him on the road, he has a mass said. If, in spite of this
precaution, he is plundered on the high road by the Salteadores, he
does not fail on his return to go to the monk of whom he ordered the
mass, and bitterly complain of his want of efficacy. The monk is
accustomed to such recriminations, and knows what to answer.
"That does not surprise me, my son," the Franciscan, or the
Benedictine, or whoever he may be, as the answer is always the same,
replies; "what the deuce did you expect to have for a peso? Ah, if you
had been willing to pay a half ounce, we should have had the beadle,
the cross, the banner, two choristers, and eight candles, and then most
assuredly nothing would have happened to you; but how could you expect
the Virgin to put herself out of the way for a peso?"
The Chilian withdraws, convinced that he is in the wrong, and promising
not to be niggardly on the next opportunity.
With the exception of the minor trades to which we have alluded, the
monks are jolly fellows, smoking, drinking, swearing, and making love
as well as a man of the world. It is not uncommon to see in a wine
shop a fat monk with a red face and a cigarette in his mouth, merrily
playing the vihuela as dance accompaniment to a loving couple whom he
will confess next morning. Most of the monks carry their knife in their
sleeve, and in a quarrel, which is a frequent thing in Chili, use it as
well, and with as little remorse as the first comer.
With them religion is a trade by which they make the largest profit
possible, and does not at all compel them to live without the pale of
the common existence.
Let us add, too, in concluding this rather lengthy sketch, but which
it was necessary to give the reader, in order that by knowing Chilian
manners, he might be able to account for the strangest of the incidents
which we are about to record, that, in spite of the reproaches which
the light conduct of the monks at times deserves--regard being had to
the sanctity of the gown they wear--they are not the less an object of
respect to all, who, taking compassion on human weakness, excuse the
man in the priest, and repay tolerance for tolerance.
The convent of the Purísima Concepción stands at the extremity of
the Almendral. It is a vast edifice, entirely built of carved stone,
nearly two hundred years old, and was founded by the Spaniards a short
time after their arrival in Chili. The whole building is imposing and
majestic, like all the Spanish convents; it is almost a small town, for
it contains everything which may be useful and agreeable for life--a
church, a hospital, a washhouse, a large kitchen garden, a shady and
well-laid out park, reserved for the promenades of the nuns, and large
cloisters lined with frescoes, representing scenes from the life of the
Virgin, to whom the convent is consecrated. These cloisters, bordered
by circular galleries, out of which, open the nuns' cells, enclose a
sandy courtyard, containing a piece of water and a fountain, whose jet
refreshes the air in the midday heat.
The cells are charming retreats, in which nothing that promotes
comfort is wanting--a bed, two chairs covered with Cordovan leather,
a prie-Dieu, a small toilet table, in the drawer of which you may be
certain of finding a looking glass, and a few sacred pictures, occupy
the principal space destined for necessary articles. In one corner of
the room is visible, between a guitar and a scourge, a statue of the
Virgin, with a wreath of roses on her head and a constantly-burning
lamp before her. Such is the furniture which will be found, with but
few exceptions, in the cells of the nuns.
The convent of the Concepción contains about one hundred and fifty nuns
of the order of Mount Carmel, and some sixty novices. In this country
of toleration, strict nunneries are rare; the sisters are allowed to
go into town and pay or receive visits; the rule is extremely gentle,
and with the exception of the offices which they are expected to attend
with great punctuality, the nuns, when they have once entered their
cells, are almost free to do what they think proper, no one apparently
paying any attention to them.
After the incident which we recorded in our first chapter, the
procession, momentarily interrupted by the furious attack of Leon's
horses, was reorganized as well as it could be; all the persons
comprising it returned to their places so soon as the first alarm was
over, and two hours after the gates of the Purísima Concepción closed
again upon the long file of nuns engulfed in its walls.
So soon as the crosses, banners, and statues of saints had been
deposited with all proper ceremony in their usual places, after a short
prayer repeated in community, the ranks were broken, and the nuns began
chattering about the strange event which had suddenly interrupted them
as they left the cathedral. Several of them were not tired of praising
the bold rider who had so cleverly guided his runaway horse, and saved
a great misfortune by the skill which he had displayed under the
circumstances.
From the midst of a group of about a dozen sisters conversing together,
there came forth two maidens, dressed in the white garb of novices,
who, taking each other's arm, walked gently toward the most deserted
part of the garden. They must have eagerly desired not to be disturbed
in their private conversation, for, selecting the most shaded walk,
they took great care to hide themselves from their companions'
observation behind the shrubs that formed the borders.
They soon reached a marble seat hidden behind a clump of trees, in
front of a basin filled with transparent water, whose completely
motionless surface was as smooth as that of a mirror. No better place
could have been selected for a confidential conversation; so they sat
down, and raised the veil that covered their face.
They were two charming girls, who did not count thirty years between
them, and whose delicate profile was gracefully designed under their
pure and exquisitely white wimple. The first was Doña Maria de Souza y
Soto-Mayor; the other was Doña Rosita Sallazar, sister of the dashing
Don Pedro, of whom we have already got a glimpse as affianced husband
of Inez.
Doña Maria's face displayed visible traces of emotion. Was it the
result of the terror she had felt on seeing herself almost trampled
on by the smuggler's horse, or did a cause, of which we are ignorant,
produce the effect which we have just indicated?
The conversation of the young ladies will tell us.
"Well, sister," Rosita asked, "have you recovered from the terror which
this morning's event caused you?"
Doña Maria, who seemed absorbed in secret thoughts, started, and
hurriedly answered--
"Oh! I am well now; quite well, thank you."
"In what a way you say that, Maria! What is the matter? You are quite
pale."
A short silence followed this appeal. The young ladies took each
other's hand, and waited to see which would be the first to speak.
Maria and Rosita, who were nearly of the same age, loved each other
like sisters. Both novices, and destined to take the veil at the same
date, the identity of their position had produced between them an
affectionate sympathy which never failed them. They placed in a common
stock, with the simple confidence of youth, their hopes and sorrows,
their plans and dreams--brilliant winged dreams, which the convent
walls would pitilessly break. They had no secret from each other, and
hence Rosita was grieved by the accent with which Maria had answered
her when she asked her how she was. The latter evidently concealed
something from her for the first time since she had entered the convent.
"Maria," she said to her, gently, "forgive me if I acted indiscreetly
in asking after your dear health; but I feared, on noticing the pallor
of your face--"
"Dear Rosita, how kind you are!" Maria interrupted, embracing her
companion tenderly; "and how wrong I am! Yes, I am suffering, really;
but I know not from what, and it only began just now."
"Oh! accursed be the wicked man, cause of so much terror!" Rosita
continued, alluding to Leon the smuggler.
"Oh, silence, Rosita! Speak not so of that cavalier, for he has on his
face such a noble expression of courage and goodness that--"
"So you looked at him, sister?" Rosita exclaimed.
"Yes, when I regained my senses and opened my eyes, his were fixed on
me."
"What! he dared to raise your veil? But it is a great sin to let a man
see your face, and you must confess it to dear Mother Superior; the
convent rule demands it."
"I know it, and will conform."
"After all," Rosita continued, with volubility, "as you had fainted,
you could not prevent him raising your veil; hence it is not your
fault, but that young man's."
"He saved my life!" Maria murmured.
"That is true, and you are bound to feel grateful to him instead of
hating him."
"Do you think I can remember him without sinning?"
"Certainly: is it not natural to remember those who have done us a
great service?"
"Yes, yes; you are right," Maria exclaimed, joyfully. "Thanks,
sister--thanks, sister: your words do me good, for I was afraid it
would be wrong to think of him who saved me."
"On the contrary, sister," Rosita said, with a little doctorial tone
which rendered her ravishing, "you know that Mother Abbess daily
repeats to us that ingratitude is one of the most odious vices."
"Oh, in that case, I did right in giving him my scapulary as a pledge
of remembrance."
"What! did you give him that holy object?"
"Oh, poor young man! he seemed so affected, his glance was so full of
sorrow and grief--"
While Maria was speaking, Rosita was examining her, and after the last
words, entertained no doubt as to the feelings which animated her
friend.
"Maria," she said to her, bending down to her ear and speaking so low
that no other but the one for whom it was meant could hear it--"Maria,
you love him, do you not?"
"Alas!" Maria exclaimed, all trembling--"do I know? Oh, silence, for
mercy's sake!" she continued, impetuously. "I love him! But who would
have taught me to love? A poor creature, hurled within the walls of
this convent at the tenderest age, I have up to this day known nought
but the slavery in which my entire life must be spent. Excepting you,
my kind Rosita, is there a creature in the world that takes an interest
in my fate, is happy at my smile or grieved at my tears? Have I ever
known since the day when reason began to enlighten my heart, the
ineffable sweetness of maternal caresses--those caresses which are
said to warm the heart, make the sky look blue, the water more limpid,
and the sun more brilliant? No; I have ever been alone. My mother, whom
I could have loved so dearly--my sister, whom I sought without knowing
her, and whose kisses my childish lips yearned for--both shun me and
abandon me. I am in their way; they are anxious to get rid of me; and
as all the world repulses me, I am given to God!"
A torrent of tears prevented the young lady from continuing. Rosita
was terrified by this so true grief, and tried to restore her friend's
calmness, while unable to check the tears that stood in her own eyes.
"Maria! why speak thus? it is an offence to God to complain so bitterly
of the destiny which He has imposed on us."
"It is because I am suffering extraordinary torture! I know not what I
feel, but I fancy that during the last hour the bandage which covered
my eyes has suddenly fallen, and allowed them to catch a glimpse of
an unknown light. Up to this day I have lived as the birds of the air
live, without care for the morrow and remembrance of yesterday; and in
my ignorance of the things which are accomplished outside these walls
I could not regret them. I was told: You will be a nun; and I accepted,
thinking that it would be easy for me to find happiness wherever my
life passed gently and calmly; but now it is no longer possible."
And the maiden's eyes flashed with such a brilliancy that Rosita dared
not interrupt her, and listened, checking with difficulty the beating
of her own heart.
"Listen, sister!" Maria continued, "I hear an undefinable music in my
ears; it is the intoxicating promises which the joys of the world wake
in me, which I am forbidden to know, and which my soul has divined.
Look! for I saw strange visions pass before my dazzled eyes. They are
laughing pictures of an existence of pleasures and joys which flash
and revolve around me in an infernal whirlwind. Take care; for I feel
within me sensations which horrify me; shudders that traverse my whole
being and cause me impossible suffering and pleasure. Oh, when that
young man's hand touched mine this morning, I trembled as if I had
seized a red-hot iron; when I regained my senses, and felt his breath
on my face, I fancied that life was going to abandon me; and when I
was obliged to leave him, it seemed to me as if there were an utter
darkness around me; I saw nothing more, and was annihilated. His fiery
glance cast eternal trouble and desolation into my soul. Yes, I love
him: if loving be suffering, I love him! For, on hearing the convent
gates close after the procession, a terrible agony contracted my heart,
an icy coldness seized upon me, and I felt as if the cold tombstone
were falling again on my head."
Overcome by the extreme emotion which held possession of her, the
maiden had risen; her face was flushed with a feverish tinge; her eyes
flashed fire; her voice had assumed a strange accent of terror and
passion; her bosom heaved wildly, and she appeared to be transfigured!
Suddenly she burst into sobs, and hiding her face in her hands, yielded
to her despair.
"Poor Maria!" said Rosita, affected by this so simply poignant
desolation, and seeking in vain by her caresses to restore calmness,
"how she suffers!"
For a long time the two maidens remained seated at the same spot,
mingling their tears and sighs. Still a complete prostration eventually
succeeded the frenzy which had seized on Maria; and she was preparing,
on her companion's entreaties, to return to her cell, when several
voices, repeating her name, were heard at a short distance from the
thicket where she had sought refuge.
"They are seeking us, I think," said Rosita.
"They are calling me," Maria continued; "what can they want with me?"
"Well, beloved sister, we will go and learn."
The two maidens rose, and soon found themselves in the presence of two
or three sisters, who were looking for them.
"Ah, there you are!" the latter exclaimed; "Holy Mother Superior is
asking after you, Maria; and we have been seeking you for the last ten
minutes."
"Thanks, sisters," Maria answered; "I will obey the summons of our good
mother."
"Be calm," Rosita whispered to her, with some amount of anxiety.
"Fear nothing; I will manage to hide my feelings." And all returned in
the direction of the convent.