THE NINE DAYS' FESTIVAL OF THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS.
Day had hardly dawned, when our maiden arose suddenly from the floor.
She stood motionless a moment with ear attent, but she did not catch the
sound of the bells of San Felipe, which she thought she had heard in her
dreams. She was mistaken; it was not yet six o'clock. She lighted her
lamp, and going to her boudoir prostrated herself in humiliation before
the image of Jesus and began to pray. As she wore nothing but a thin
cambric night-dress, she naturally felt the cold through it, and began
to shiver, but she would not yield, and she kept on with her prayers
until her teeth chattered. Only then she decided to quit the position
which she had taken and dress herself. Thereupon, she opened the four
windows of her boudoir and blew out the lamp.
A peevish light, cold and chill, made its way into the Señorita de
Elorza's room, giving the articles of furniture a lugubrious aspect
quite different from what they usually bore. The morning chill also
penetrated them as well as their mistress, and they stood silent and
melancholy, doubtless hoping for the rays of the sun to show forth their
beauty and splendor. Only in one spot or another, as the light fell on
the varnish, there was a pale reflection which looked like the glassy,
filmy eye of a dying person. The room was situated in a sort of square
turret which was built in one of the rear angles of the mansion; it
rose some yards above it, and was open to the light on all its four
sides. The tower held only two apartments,--Maria's, composed of boudoir
and bedroom, and her maid Genoveva's chamber, which was single. They
were the coldest but at the same time the most cheerful rooms in the
house. The few times that the sun deigned to visit Nieva he went
straight to lodge in them, entered without as much as asking leave, in
the way of sovereign guests, and spent the day, shining in the mirrors,
brightening up the satin of the chairs, dulling the varnish of the
clothes-presses, and in a word disporting himself in a thousand
different ways,--all this, it may be said, would have been, had not
Genoveva taken the precaution to draw the curtains in time. They were
likewise the quietest; the noises of the house did not reach them, and
those from outside had no possibility of disturbing them, owing to their
situation. Only the wind, which almost never ceased to blow heavily
around the tower, made strange noises, especially at night, sometimes
moaning, sometimes screaming, and constantly complaining because the
windows were kept hermetically sealed. During the daytime it was neither
melancholy nor petulant, but contented itself with a perpetual but very
dignified murmur like sea-shells held to the ear.
Maria, still shivering though she was wrapped up in her shawl, went to
one of the windows which looked down into the garden whose earthwall was
contiguous to the quay. From that window the whole length of the Nieva
River could be seen down to El Moral, which was the place where it
emptied into the sea. It would not measure more than a league in length,
but its breadth varied wonderfully, according as it was seen at high or
low water, at spring tide or neap tide. When there were full tides, it
spread out half a league, lapping up against the foot of the
pine-covered hills which shut in the valley on both sides. At low tide
the water drew out almost completely, leaving barely a narrow, sinuous
thread in the centre. Between the conterminous line of hills there lay
on both sides of the channel wide flats of soft gray mud, dotted with
pools of water where the ragamuffins of the quay took delight in
splashing and wallowing until they had besmeared themselves thickly
enough to go straight and wash it off by diving head first into the
channel. Above the garden wall rose the masts of a few vessels, not a
dozen in all, anchored by the quay, the majority of them smacks and
schooners[5] of insignificant draught.
The young girl looked for an instant at the sky, which was still
profoundly dark towards the west, hiding and confusing the outline of
the distant mountains. In the zenith she noticed that it was completely
overcast, of an ashen color, which grew lighter as she turned her face
toward the east. There the clouds were not as yet compacted into a solid
mass as in the opposite quarter; they stood out against the sweep of the
sky in monstrous black piles, and opened sufficiently to let the few
feeble, melancholy, ruddy rays pass through, which the sun, like a dying
fire, was beginning to shed upon the earth. The tide was rising. The
surface of the river absorbed the slender light of the sky, and gave
forth nothing more than a tremulous metallic reflection in the far
distance.
After watching the sunrise for a time, our maiden got a book which lay
on the dressing-table in her room, and came back to the window to see if
she could read; but it was not yet light enough. She laid the book on a
chair and again went to the window, leaning her forehead against its
panes. The sky kept growing brighter in the direction of El Moral; but
it added no life or good cheer to the earth. The growing light seemed
only to make more distinct its stern, forbidding face. A wretched and
disagreeable day was in prospect, such as the natives of Nieva were
accustomed to enjoy the larger part of the year.
But soon the windows of the east were closed; the huge, thick clouds
which had stood out separate, allowing the light to pass, once more made
one unbroken mass, by the impulse of some breath of air, and the rosy
flush faded away. In their place remained a uniform pallid light, which,
little by little, spread over the heavens, lazily struggling with the
shadows in the west. The far-away reflections on the river likewise died
out, leaving it all a monotonous color, like unpolished steel. The
boudoir slowly filled with light; the pretty articles of furniture, and
the objects adorning it, emerged from the obscurity, graceful, dainty,
and fascinating, like the dancers in the opera, when at an outburst from
the orchestra they throw aside the spectral mantles in which they had
wrapped themselves. The light, however, did not smile; all the time it
grew more melancholy and forbidding. Across the mighty masses of dark
violet cloud which were rising above the four or five houses of El
Moral, others, small and white, began to fly like wisps of gauze--a sure
sign of storm.
Maria quickly felt the pane against which she was leaning tremble. A
gust of wind and rain had savagely lashed the window. She stepped back a
little and saw that all the panes were weeping at once. For some little
time she occupied herself in watching the more or less rapid and uneven
course which the drops of water followed as they rolled down the smooth
surface of the glass. The sharp, intermittent pattering of the rain
brought back to her memory the many afternoons that she had spent near
that same window listening to it with an open book in her hand. The book
had always been a novel. For more than four months she had incessantly
begged her father to let her have the use of the boudoir in the tower so
that she might give herself up entirely to her favorite occupation
without fear of any one interrupting her. But Don Mariano feared to give
his permission, because the apartments in the tower were cold, and the
girl's health was delicate. At last, overcome by her entreaties and
caresses, he yielded, after having the rooms carefully carpeted, and
exacting the condition that Genoveva should sleep near by. It was a
happy period for Maria. She was sixteen, and her mind was restless and
high-spirited. Her music, in which she had made prodigious strides, had
stimulated in her heart a decided tendency to melancholy and tears. She
wept at the slightest provocation, sometimes without reason, and when it
was least expected, but her tears were so sweet, and she experienced
such intense pleasure in them, that on many occasions she fostered them
artificially. How many times, gazing from that window upon the delicate
clouds of the horizon tinted with rose or the last splendors of the
dying sun, she felt her heart overcome by a depth of melancholy which
found relief only in sobs! How many times she had pained her father with
a storm of tears, the cause of which she could not tell, because she
herself knew not! The knowledge of painting, in which she also excelled,
turned her inclinations towards light and a wide outlook, and this
equally contributed to make her long for the rooms in the tower. When
once she had taken her quarters there with her piano, her paints, and
her novels, Maria looked upon herself as the most fortunate girl on
earth. If at noon of some magnificent sunny day, under an effulgent
azure sky, she opened all the windows of her boudoir and admitted the
fresh, keen wind which toyed with her hair and scattered the papers from
the table over the floor, she imagined with delight that she had mounted
upon a star, and that she was in the midst of space, swimming through
the air at the mercy of every chance. And this illusion, though it was
hard for her to keep it up, made her happy. Sometimes at night she used
to open the blinds and light not only her lamp, but all the candles in
the candlesticks, so as to imagine that she was stationed in a lofty
lighthouse. "From the river this tower must seem like a beacon, and my
room the lamp which has just been lighted," was what she used to say, in
childish delight. And then she began to peer through the panes to see if
any ship were on its way down to El Moral, until, frightened by the
darkness without and dazzled by the light within, she finally grew
terror-stricken at such an illumination and hastened to extinguish the
lights.
Don Mariano called that gay, aerial boudoir _Maria's bird-cage_; and in
truth the name was admirably appropriate, for the girl was constantly
flitting about in it, moving the furniture and changing the things from
one place to another, nervous and restless as a bird. To make the
resemblance more complete, it often happened that when the family were
gathered in the dining-room they heard the distant trills of some
cavatina or romanza which Maria was studying. Don Mariano never failed
to exclaim, with his usual benignant smile, "Our little bird is
singing." And all would likewise smile, full of content, for everybody
in the house loved and admired the girl.
In two or three years a cargo of novels had made their way into the
tower boudoir, and been sent away again, after having diverted the long
leisure hours of our young friend, who put under contribution, not only
her father's library and her own purse, but likewise the book-shelves of
all the friends of the family. Don Serapio was her first purveyor, and
thus for a long time she read only blood-thirsty accounts of terrible
and unnatural crimes, in which the proprietor of the canning factory
took such intense delight. In this period she did not enjoy much, for,
though these novels excited her curiosity to the highest degree, keeping
it in suspense and under the spell of the reading a large part of the
day and night, yet no sweet or poetic aftertaste was left in her mind
for her delectation, and she forgot them the day after she read them.
Moreover, they terrified her too much; many and many times they
disturbed her dreams, and even on some occasions she begged Genoveva to
lie down beside her, for she was frightened to death. After exhausting
Don Serapio's library, she asked one of the Delgado sisters to give her
the freedom of hers, which had the reputation of being abundantly
supplied. In fact, it was furnished with a great quantity of novels, all
of the primitive romantic school, and elegantly bound, but many of them
soiled by use. In the more tender passages many of the pages were marked
by yellow spots, which was a manifest sign that the various ladies into
whose hands the book had fallen had shed a few tears in tribute to the
misfortunes of the hero. We already know that one Señorita de Delgado
wept with great facility. Among the novels which she read at this time
were _Ivanhoe_; _The Lady of the Lake_; _Maclovia and Federico_, or _the
Mines of the Tyrol_; _Saint Clair of the Isles_, _or the Exiles on the
Island of Barra_; _Oscar and Amanda_; _The Castle of Aguila Negra_; and
others. These gave her very much greater enjoyment. Absolutely absorbed,
heart and soul, she explored the region of those delicious fantasies
with which the illustrious Walter Scott, and other novelists not so
illustrious, delighted our fathers, creating for their use a middle age
peopled with troubadours and tournaments, with stupendous deeds of
prowess, with Gothic castles, heroes, and indomitable loves. What
exercised the greatest fascination upon the Señorita de Elorza was the
unchangeable steadfastness of affection always manifested by the
protagonists of these novels. Whether man or woman, if a love passion
seized them, it was labor wasted to raise any barriers, for everything
was idle; across the opposition of fathers and guardians, and in spite
of the crafty schemes laid by jilted suitors, purified by a thousand
different tests, suffering much, and weeping much more, at the end they
always came out triumphant and well deserved it all. The Señorita de
Elorza vowed secretly in the sanctuary of her heart to show the same
fealty to the first lover whom Providence should send her, and imitate
his fortitude in adversities. Each one of these novels left a lasting
impression on her youthful mind, and for several days, provided that the
characters of some other did not succeed in captivating her, she
ceaselessly thought of the beautiful miracles accomplished by the
heroine's love, pure as the diamond and as unyielding, and taking up the
action where the novelist had left it, which was always in the act of
celebrating the nuptials of the afflicted lovers, she continued it in
her imagination, conceiving with all its minutiæ the after-life spent by
the husband and wife surrounded by their children, and re-reading with
folded hands the places where her tears had so often been shed. Our
maiden was anxious for one of these irresistible and melting passions to
take possession of her heart, but it never entered her mind that any of
the young fellows who visited her house dressed in a frock-coat or
_Americana_ could inspire it. Love, for her, always took the form of a
warrior, whom she imagined with helmet and breastplate, coming
breathlessly and covered with dust, after having unhorsed his competitor
with a lance-thrust, to bend his knee before her and receive the crown
from her hand, which he would kiss with tenderness and devotion. Again,
stripped of his helmet, and in the disguise of a beggar, yet evincing by
his gallant port the nobility and courage of his race, he came by night
to the foot of her tower, and accompanying himself on the lute, sang
some exquisite ditty in which he would invite her to fly with him across
country to some unknown castle, far from the tyranny of her sire and the
hated spouse whom he wished to force upon her. The night was dark, the
sentinels of the castle benumbed with a philter, the ladder already
clung close to the window, and the champing steeds were pawing the
ground not very far away. "Why dost delay, O mistress mine, why dost
delay?" Maria heard a gentle tapping on the panes, and more than once
she had risen from her bed, in her bare feet, to satisfy herself that it
was not her warrior but the wind who called her, sighing. At that time
she could not see a vessel making for the port at night, without
trembling; the mystery which always attends a vessel seen in the
darkness made her vaguely imagine an ambuscade laid by some ignorant,
brutal suitor, who, fearing lest he be rebuffed, wished to ravish her
away by main force from her home, and bear her away to distant strands
where he might enjoy with her his barbarous pleasure. All that she
needed to become disillusionized was to perceive the vessel carefully
warping up to the quay and discharging a few barrels and boxes. But the
romance which made the profoundest impression upon her was, without
question, that entitled _Matilde_, _or the Crusades_. This, better than
any other, was able to carry her mind back to that strange, brilliant
epoch of which it treated, causing her to be present during that heroic
struggle under the walls of Jerusalem. It is easy to comprehend,
however, that it was not the battles between Infidels and Christians
which most interested her in the tale, but that weird, improbable love,
tender and passionate at once, which sprang up in the heroine's heart
for one of the Mohammedan warriors who had laid violent hands on the
Sepulchre of the Lord. The Señorita de Elorza absolved and almost with
her whole heart sympathized with this passion where the sin of loving
one of the most terrible enemies of Christ offered a more powerful
attraction and a keener zest. How was it possible not to fall in love
with that famous Malec-Kadel, so fiery and terrible in battle, so gentle
and submissive with his ladylove, so noble and generous on all
occasions! Ah! if she had been in Matilde's place, she would have loved
in the same way in spite of all laws, human and divine! This Infidel was
the character who captivated her the most of all, even to the point of
inspiring her to make a very clever painting in which she represented
him on the deck of a ship where he was sailing with Matilde, saving her
from the snares of her enemies, protecting her with his left hand, and
hewing off heads with his right hand, as one reaps the grain in summer.
What best brought her to realize her enthusiasm, was the arrival of a
Turk at Nieva, selling mother-of-pearl ornaments and slippers. She was
so surprised to see him pass in front of the house, and her curiosity
was so excited, that she was not content until she had addressed him,
and made him undergo a long series of questions about the fields of
Jerusalem where the love scenes which so impressed her had taken place,
about the customs, the dress, and the government of the Mohammedans; but
the Turk, either because he was not in the humor of parleying, or
because of his being a native of Reus in the province of Tarragona, and
having never been in Palestine in his life, answered her questions with
impudent curtness.
It had now been a long time, however, since Maria had taken up a novel.
The recollection of the time when she had devoured so many caused a
slight contraction of her features, and drew in her smooth brow a wide,
deep furrow.
The blasts of wind fraught with rain lashed the panes of glass for a
long time, until they had given them a thorough washing. Gradually its
gusts became less frequent, and at last they completely ceased. The
light, meantime, had increased, mantling the whole of the murky heavens,
and now bringing into relief the forms of the far western hills which
were visible through the opposite casement. But the windows of the sky
which gave passage to the rosy rays when the sunrise first began, did
not open again, and all the clouds of the celestial vault united into
one, like an ash-colored or grayish mantle, which gave free course to
the rain and hindered the light. The storm, as usual, dissolved into a
fine drizzle, which began to fall slowly, filling the atmosphere with an
evanescent, tremulous veil, woven of watery threads, which still more
diminished the brilliancy of the growing light, and hid the outlines of
distant objects. The tide was still flowing; the wide sheet of water
which stretched away to El Moral assumed a color earthy near its edges,
but dark and heavy in the centre.
Maria again took up her book, brought her chair to the window, and
sitting down, began to read, it now being light enough to allow it. It
was the _Life of Saint Teresa_, written by herself,--a book bound in
solid pasteboard covers, which were stamped with the gilt ornamentations
characteristic of religious works.
According as the young girl became absorbed in her reading, her face
grew more and more serene, and the deep frown on her brow disappeared.
She was reading the second chapter in which the Saint sets forth how in
the years of her youth she was enamored with books of knight-errantry,
and the vanities of the toilet, and hints at the love affairs which at
the same time she had passed through. When Maria raised her eyes from
the book, they shone with a peculiar delight of inward content.
The bells of San Felipe at last actually began to ring. Maria quickly
threw down her book and opened her maid's chamber-door.
"Genoveva! Genoveva!"
"I am awake, señorita."
"Get up; San Felipe's bells are ringing!"
In a twinkling Genoveva was up, dressed, and on hand in her mistress'
room. She was a woman of forty years, more or less, short, fat, swarthy,
with puffy cheeks, with great, protuberant gray eyes which were
expressionless, absolutely expressionless, and with thin hair waving on
her temples. She wore a plain carmelite skirt, and the black merino
cloak gathered at the shoulders, such as are used by all provincial
serving-women. She had entered the household when Maria was not yet a
year old, to be her nurse, and she had never left her, being a notable
example of a faithful, steadfast servant.
"How long has my little dove[6] been dressed?"
"About an hour already, Genoveva. I thought I heard the bells, but I was
mistaken. Now they are ringing in good earnest. Let us not lose any
time; take the umbrellas, and let us go."
"Whenever you please, señorita; I am all ready."
Both put on their mantillas, and trying not to make any noise, they went
down to the entry, carefully unlocked and opened the door, and sallied
forth into the street, which they crossed with open umbrellas until they
reached the opposite arcade.
The little city of Nieva, as it seems to me I have already said, has
almost all of its streets lined with an arcade on one side or the other,
sometimes on both. As a general thing it is small, low, uneven, and
supported by single round stone pillars, without ornamentation of any
sort. Likewise it is ill paved. Only in occasional localities, where
some house had been reconstructed, it was wider and had more comfortable
pavement. If all the houses were to be rebuilt,--and there is no doubt
that this will come in time,--the town, owing to this system of
construction, would have a certain monumental aspect, making it well
worthy of being seen. Even as it is now, though it does not boast of
much beauty, it is very convenient for pedestrians, who need not get wet
except when they may wish to pass from one sidewalk to the other. And
certainly its illustrious founders were far-sighted, for, as regards
constant, ceaseless rain, there is no other place in Spain that can
hold a candle to our town.
Protected from the rain, mistress and maid crossed through one corner of
the Plaza, and entered a long, narrow, solitary street. The worthy
inhabitants were sleeping the sweet sleep of morning. Only from time to
time they met some sailor wrapped up in his rough waterproof capote,
who, with fishing utensils in his hand, and making a great clatter with
his enormous boots, was striding towards the quay.
"Are you well protected, señorita? See, there's been a frost; one would
think it was already January."
"Yes; I put on a velvet waist, and besides, this sacque is well wadded."
"Well, well, sweetheart.[7] If your papa knew that we were out so early,
he would scold me for consenting to it. You are exceedingly virtuous,
señorita. Few or none would lead such a saintly life at your age."
"Hush, hush, Genoveva! don't say such a thing. I am only a miserable
sinner; much more miserable than you have any idea of."
"Señorita, for Heaven's sake--I am not the only one who says so; but
everybody. Yesterday Doña Filomela told me that she was edified to see
you go to mass, and take the Blessed Sacrament, and she would give
anything if her daughters would do the same. And I don't wonder she
wishes so, for one of 'em, the youngest, is the devil's own. Would you
believe, the other day, señorita, she scratched her sister right in
church because one was to confess before the other. Pretty kind of
repentance! It's shameful, señorita, it's shameful to see how some women
go to church! One would think that they were in their own houses! Ay!
the poor little things don't realize that they are in the house of the
Lord of heaven and earth, who will ask them to give account of their
sin. Hasn't Doña Filomela shown you the rosary which her brother sent
her from Havana? It is a marvel! all ivory and gold, with a great
crucifix of solid gold. To say your prayers there's no need of such
extravagance, is there, señorita?"
"To pray one needs only a pure and humble heart."
"Ay! señorita, how well you speak! It seems as if they were mistaken who
say that you are not more than twenty years old. But when God wishes to
pour out his gifts on one of his creatures, it makes no difference
whether she be young or old, rich or poor. Every day I pray the most
Blessed Virgin to preserve your health, so that you may serve as an
example for those who are in mortal sin."
"What you ought to pray for, Genoveva, is that He will purify my soul
and pardon the many sins that I have committed."
"God have mercy! if you need to be forgiven, you who are so pious and
humble-minded, what would the rest of us need? Don't be so severe upon
yourself. Fray Ignacio has so much esteem for you that he never wearies
of sounding your praises; and that too, though he's not very indulgent,
as you know. At this very moment I suppose that holy man's in the
sacristy, listening to people! What a healthy man he is! It must be
because God makes him so. He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't
rest a moment. And yet every day he grows stronger and stronger, and has
greater and greater zeal in serving God. I don't see how he can spend so
many hours in the confessional, without taking something to eat. Only
the Lord can give him the power. Blessed be His name forever! Amen!"
"That's true; God works real miracles in him because there is need in
the world. Oh, God! what would have become of my soul if these holy
missioners had not come to open my eyes!"
"Though they have helped greatly in the way of salvation, still, before
they came you were very good and used to attend the Sacraments."
"How little that amounts to, Genoveva, when the deepest nooks and
corners of the conscience are not looked into!"
"Tell me, señorita, did you see in your dreams last night that beautiful
bird with fiery feathers, with a cross in its bill, which you have seen
lately?"
Maria stopped suddenly short and raised her hand to her breast as though
she had received a blow. Then she began to walk on again, exclaiming in
an undertone,--
"Last night I was not allowed to see it!"
"Why not, sweetheart?"
She made no reply. She walked on a while, and a groan escaped her. Then
she stopped once more, and throwing her arms around her maid's neck, she
began to sob bitterly.
"I am very wicked, Genoveva, very wicked! My heart has not yet been
freed from impurities; the flesh and the devil will hold me in their
sway. If you knew what a sin I committed yesterday!"
"Hush, hush! don't be discouraged! What sin could you have committed,
you lamb?"[8]
"Yes, yes; I am more wicked than you imagine. The more light I receive
from God, the deeper I seem to sink into the darkness; the more He
heaps blessings upon me, the more ungrateful I am toward Him."
"God is infinitely merciful, señorita."
"But infinitely just, as well."
"Beseech the aid of Saint Joseph the blessed; there is no fault which
the Lord does not forgive through his intercession. Come, stop crying
now; you are going to confession, and all is going to be forgiven."
After the girl had calmed down a little, they proceeded on their way,
till they reached a rather diminutive plaza, fronted by the stern, gray
façade of a great church which attracted attention neither by its beauty
nor by any other quality, good or bad. They crossed a portico, huge and
gray like the façade, and entered the temple, which was likewise gray
and enormous; these qualities were its only characteristics. It
consisted of three naves, the central one broad and lofty like a
cathedral; those on the sides narrow and low; all three had been
whitewashed at some time very remote, but were now thick with dust,
peeling in various places and stained with wide-spread, mysterious
spots. The altars, which were profusely adorned, presented a gray color,
very distinct from the gilding which originally had covered them.
Through its dirty glass could be seen the stiff image of some saint with
metal aureole, or the sad anguished face of an Ecce-Homo.
It was too early in the morning to find many people. Nevertheless,
scattered here and there, praying on bended knees before the altars, a
few women with covered heads were to be seen; others pressed up to the
latticed windows of the confessional and held their mantillas on both
sides of their faces, while with a half-audible whispering they confided
their misdeeds to the sacred tribunal of the Church. A few priests, who
kept the doors of the confessionals open, could be seen in cassock and
hood, bending forward, with their ears to the window, reflecting in
their frowning faces and negligent attitude the weariness which they
felt; others kept theirs hermetically sealed, and scarcely could any one
in passing perceive the presence of a human being.
A few places in the sanctuary were bathed in a melancholy light, but the
corners and the hollows between the pillars were left in almost perfect
darkness. The huge brazen lamps swung in the spaces on cords attached to
the roof. The leaded window of the two huge, open oriels, high up in the
walls of the great central nave, admitted a sad sheet of light,
extending like a pale altar-cloth before the principal shrine. On one
side of this, at some little distance, was another small portable altar,
upon which was raised an image of the Saviour with perforated breast,
wherein was seen a bleeding heart, wearing a crown of thorns and haloed
with flames; around the image were a host of lighted candles, the
hissing and crackling of which sounded lugubriously in the immense,
silent circuit of the church. It was a temporary altar set up because of
the Nine Days' Festival of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, which was
celebrated at that time.
Genoveva went to the sacristy to ask Fray Ignacio if her señorita could
make her confession. The latter remained kneeling near the confessional,
waiting for the priest. She felt a peculiar, timid impatience; a bit of
fear mingled with anxiety and desire. The sanctuary was filled with a
mingled odor of dampness and dust, of extinguished candles and of faded
flowers, which inspired her with veneration. The moments preceding
confession were filled with a delicious suspense for Maria. The
circumstance and mystery which surrounded that intimate confidence, the
most intimate in the world, exerted a certain fascination over her mind,
and agitated her to the very depths of her being, without loathing. She
felt slight chills run over her body, followed by flushes of heat, which
mounted to her face and set it on fire. At that moment she thought not
so much of her sins as of the way in which she should try to tell them.
Fray Ignacio's dark, resolute, and stern figure hastened up to the
confessional, and without vouchsafing his penitent a single glance, took
his place within it. Maria, tremulous and with melting heart, drew near
the little window. When at the end of a half-hour she turned away, her
eyes were red and her cheeks were pale.
The church, meantime, had been slowly filling, although almost
exclusively with women. A few ventured as far as the centre, making with
their wooden shoes a real clatter as they walked on the tiled pavement;
the most took them off at the door and carried them in their hands. The
women of the people were in the majority, but there were a goodly number
of señoras: men were few. The multitude for some time remained scattered
about, kneeling at the altar rails, all making their devotions. From
time to time an acolyte in flesh-colored balandran and white surplice,
with shaven head and crafty eyes, rang his bronze hand-bell, and a few
women left their places and stationed themselves before some altar where
a priest, decked with golden ornaments, was beginning the sacrifice of
the mass. After consuming the elements, he would administer the
communion to two or three sets of women. Maria, with head bent on her
bosom and hands devoutly crossed, joined them to receive the Holy
Eucharist. When the priest placed on her tongue the consecrated
particle, amid the dull, hushed murmur of the throng, she felt her
cheeks slightly inflamed by the grandeur of the miracle which had taken
place within her; then she withdrew three or four steps from the altar,
overwhelmed with veneration, and without venturing to cast a look on
either side, at the end of a short space she left her place and went to
repeat the prayers imposed as her penance. An elderly clergyman in a
surplice mounted the pulpit, which was covered with a cloth of gold
tissue. The faithful came flocking from the remotest parts of the church
towards the centre, forming a dense throng about the pulpit. Maria and
Genoveva stood in the midst of it. The priest made the sign of the
cross, and began his Ave Marias and Pater Nosters in a loud voice. When
the rosary was ended, he began the service, the novena of the Sacred
Heart of Jesus. The clergyman put on an enormous pair of spectacles, and
in a snuffling, doleful tone exclaimed:--
"_O Heart_ (_Corazón_)"--the multitude repeated after him with solemn
acclaim, prolonging the words--"O Heart (_Corazoooón_)--_most lovable_
(_amantísimo_)--most lovable (_amantísimooo_)--_most sacred_
(_santísimo_)--most sacred (_santísimooo_)--_and honey-sweet_
(_melífluo_)--and honey-sweet (_melífluoo_)--_of my divine Jesus_--of my
divine Jesus--_full of flames_--full of flames--of _purest love_
(_amor_)--of purest love (_amooor_)--_consume me entirely_--consume me
entirely--_and grant me_--and grant me--_a new life_--a new life--_of
love and of grace_--of love and of grace;--_kindle and consume_--kindle
and consume--_my lukewarmness_--my lukewarmness.--O Heart (_Corazón_)--O
Heart (_Corazoooón_)--_most comfortable_ (_dulcísimo_)--most comfortable
(_dulcísimooo_)--_I adore thee_--I adore thee--_most profoundly_--most
profoundly.--_Grant me grace_--Grant me grace--_O loving Heart_
(_Corazón_)--O loving Heart (_Corazooón_)--_to atone for_--to atone
for--_the insults and ingratitudes_--the insults and ingratitudes--_done
against thee_ (_Vos_)--done against thee (_Vooos_)--_and what I pray
thee for_--and what I pray thee for--_in this novena_--in this
novena--_is for the greater glory of God_ (_Dios_)--is for the greater
glory of God (_Diooos_)--_and of my soul_--and of my soul--_Amen_--Amen."
Maria merely whispered the words of the orison and kept her eyes
fastened on the ground. Genoveva repeated them aloud, looking straight
into the priest's face. The multitude sighed after they said Amen.
When the orison was ended, the priest repeated three Pater Nosters and
three Ave Marias in honor of the three marks of the passion with which
the divine Heart of Jesus showed itself to the Blessed Mother Margarita
of Alacoque. The faithful knelt in reply. Immediately began a new orison
like the first, addressed to the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary. Then
the priest recommended all to beseech God through the mediation of the
Sacred Hearts for whatever each most needed, and the congregation
meditated silently for a few moments. Maria prayed fervently that God
would make her a better woman. Genoveva spent some time in hesitation,
without knowing what to ask for, and at last she asked for patience to
endure the suffering of her influenza. The priest read with his
snuffling voice, which drawled over the syllables like a lamentation,
the following
ILLUSTRATION.
"In the city of Munich there lived not many years ago a lady of
extraordinary beauty, who led such an exemplary life, that all gave her
the name of saint. It happened that one day there came to her house a
very lively young man to visit her, on the ground that she was one of
his own cousins, and instantly the devil managed to get complete
possession of him. His passion was so mad and wretched that at the end
of some time she yielded to an impure sin, thus gravely offending God.
After she fell into this sin she found herself sunk in a deep abyss of
melancholy, for though the unhappy woman immediately sent away the one
who had been the cause of her fault, she believed that she was doomed to
hell. She began to lead an austere life, mortifying herself with fasting
and penitence, and yet she could not escape the horrible thought. At
length, by the advice of a pilgrim who happened to pass that way, she
determined to make a novena to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. On the night
of the fifth day of constant prayer, being in bed, she heard a great
disturbance, and saw flying from her house a demon, horribly howling and
leaving behind him an intolerably fetid odor. On the following morning
she found herself cured of her melancholy, and very confident of the
infinite mercy of God."
The faithful crowded closer around the pulpit to hear the illustration,
and they took in with delight its romantic flavor. The novena ended with
a sermon in Latin. The congregation repeated an Ave Maria and a Credo.
The clergyman descended from the desk.
There was a loud and prolonged noise in the church. The throng of women
spread out, dispersed, moved to and fro, gossiping and chattering all at
once. The clattering of the wooden shoes again was heard on the damp and
filthy blocks of the pavement. An acolyte began to snuff out the candles
burning around the image of Jesus and, standing on the altar, with his
shorn head and mischievous eyes made profane grimaces at the other
boys, whose mothers kept them on their knees saying their prayers. A few
of the clergy issued from the confessionals and crossed over to the
sacristy with long strides. One was detained in the centre of the church
by various ladies, and stood talking with them a long time, though with
evident anxiety to escape from them. Through the leaded panes of the
great oriels poured all the daylight evaporating the mysteriousness of
the temple, and making it seem melancholy, wretched, and dirty, as in
reality it was. Two or three gay fellows, with coat-collars turned up
and sleeves well pulled down, came in, casting quick glances of
curiosity at all the places. A sacristan took it into his head to throw
wide open the wooden screen at the door, and a restless, noisy
multitude, who had not been early enough to take part in the novena,
surged into the vast room to listen to the word of a missioner, who at
that moment mounted the pulpit with a contemplative, zealous gesture.
When he stood up dominating the multitude, with the sacred dove made of
painted wood above his head, the noise gradually subsided. The
congregation, wonderfully increased, again crowded together beneath the
lecturer. There were many men who came not out of pure devotion, but
rather with the intention of judging the sermon from a literary point of
view.
Meantime great throngs of people came pouring in through the door,
disturbing the faithful, and hindering the establishment of silence.
Maria and Genoveva were pulled to and fro many times by the fluctuation
of the multitude. The orator waited vainly for the bustle to cease. At
last he extended his arm in academic style toward the door, and shouted
emphatically, as though he were in the heart of his discourse,--
"Close that screen!"
The doors closed slowly, as though no one had touched them. The faithful
were seating themselves in their places. For a time much coughing was
heard; at last it ceased, and the church preserved a fragile, artificial
silence, frequently broken by some stubborn cold or by the trumpet blast
of some nose being blown. The jet and mother-of-pearl beads of the
ladies' rosaries, clinking together, made a soft, melancholy
tintillation.
The orator was young, tall, and slender, with great black eyes deep set
in a pale, classic face. He also wore a cassock with surplice and cowl.
He inspired respect by his sweet, gentle gravity.
He took off his cowl, and said a few words in Latin which no one could
hear. Then putting on his cowl again, and leaning far over the railing,
he exclaimed in a loud voice,--
"Beloved Brethren in Jesus Christ!"
He possessed a ringing voice, of a sweet and sympathetic quality, which
lent a greater effect to the solemnity of the face. He began by showing
an ironical astonishment that there were to be found any at all willing
to abandon the vanities of the world to listen to the word of God, and
he warmly congratulated the faithful who had come to take part in the
Nine Days' Festival of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Of all the forms of
devotion, invented by piety, most grateful in the eyes of the Lord was
this; for it summed up and included all the rest, since, "as the heart
in the human body represents the sum and substance,--the very centre of
the physical life,--so in the same way the Sacred Heart of our Redeemer
is the centre of pious souls and the focus of light around which revolve
our aspirations for immortal glory." He ended his exordium by invoking
with impassioned phrases the aid of this Sacred Heart in letting his
discourse bring forth fruit. He offered in behalf of all an Ave Maria.
He devoted the first part of his sermon to the description of the
torment of the soul alienated from God by sin, and he drew a
circumstantial and complete picture of the griefs and insults which we
daily inflict upon the gentle Heart of Jesus. When he came to paint the
sufferings caused by sin, he abandoned the beaten track of speaking of
the material torments of hell and described nothing but the spiritual
anguish, the pangs, and the heartbreak felt by the soul when it sees
itself deprived through its own fault of the love of the Creator; but he
painted them in such gloomy colorings, and with such power of
expressions, that that infinite affliction, that depth of solitude, that
silence and darkness made a greater impression on the imagination of the
throng than the fire and the worm usually invoked.
Maria was filled with fear and sadness. She remembered her sins, and
thought with horror that she might die suddenly and be lost forever.
Thereupon she made a solemn vow to grow better. But how? To change her
way of living meant nothing else than to break the bond which most
powerfully fettered her to the earth and sin. She became the prey to a
profound disturbance replete with tears, and she could not throw it off.
The clear, musical voice of the priest resounded through the great room,
unweariedly relating one by one the sufferings of the damned. The
congregation listened motionless and terrified. Far away in the
background, near the principal altar, the image of the Saviour,
encircled with candles, looked like a great red blur whose rays cast
fugitive shadows across the walls of the edifice.
"But the divine compassion is inexhaustible. There is no sin so enormous
that it cannot be blotted out by the mercy of God. The Saviour's love
for the souls that he has redeemed by his blood is not weak and limited
like that of men; like a loving father, like an affectionate spouse, He
is even ready to open his arms for the repentant sinner. Man sooner
tires of sinning than God of granting forgiveness, for we have at His
right hand an advocate who never wearies of interceding for us. Sin not,
offend not the Divine Majesty, either with words or deeds; but if ye
should give way to sin, be not discouraged, keep up good heart and
return to God. _Sed et si quis pecaverit_, _advocatum habemus apud
Patrem_, _Jesum Christum justum_, says Saint John.[9] If ye should sin,
wash with repentant tears the Redeemer's feet after the pattern of Saint
Mary Magdalene, and ye shall be saved. Remember that sad, sinful woman,
who, worn out with grief, appalled with love, threw herself at Jesus'
feet and washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair and
anointed them with ointment, while not a word fell from her lips because
she was consumed with the fire of love. Oh, tears shed for God! how much
ye avail, how great your power, how mighty your results! In winning
forgiveness tears are more potential than words; for tears, as Saint
Maximus says, are silent prayers, and demand not forgiveness if
forgiveness be undeserved. There is no deception possible with tears as
with words, and thus it was Saint Peter to win forgiveness for his fault
used not words, since with them he had sinned, had blasphemed and denied
his Lord; but he wept with bitter lamentation and was believed and
pardoned. Tears are money which cannot be counterfeited, our only
refuge: they purge the spots caused by our transgressions, they appease
the anger of God, they win us forgiveness, they enliven the soul, they
strengthen faith, magnify hope, kindle charity. The divine Jesus himself
has said, 'Blessed are they who mourn; for they shall be comforted.'"
Maria felt her heart melt within her. That fervid eulogy of tears drove
fear from her breast. The thought of the inexhaustible good will of
Jesus Christ, who, after suffering so much and shedding his precious
blood for us, forgets each moment the greatest sins, if only they are
confessed to him with repentance, stirred her to the depths of her soul.
She seemed to see the saint whose name she bore, Mary Magdalene, bathed
in tears at the Redeemer's feet, and she felt that she had done the
same. A torrent of tears burst from her eyes as she imagined herself
prone before Jesus. The women around her saw her weep, and they cast
respectful glances of admiration at her as they whispered among
themselves.
The sermon ended by exhorting the faithful, with lofty flights of
eloquence rich in imagery, to devote themselves to the Sacred Heart of
Jesus. "A quarter of an hour every day of loving discourse with this
Sacred Heart brings to the soul the purest joy that it can have on
earth. _Gustate_, _et videte quoniam suavis est Dominus_.[10] Try to
hold converse a while with the Lord, and ye will enjoy the delights of
heaven and the rarest satisfactions, such as those have who love. All
that is in this world is folly and deception: banquets, comedies,
receptions, amusements, and all the rest that the world considers good
are mingled with gall and sown with thorns. Doubt not that the Heart of
Jesus gives greater delight and comfort to those souls which seek it
with devotion and self-abnegation, than the world with all its pastimes
and insipid pleasures. What delight to be speaking for one instant with
the most lovable Jesus, forever ready to hearken to our prayers! To
unbosom one's self to him alone as to a most intimate friend. To demand
his grace, his love, and his glory! Oh, my dear friends _gustate et
videte_, _gustate et videte!_"
The orator ended the final clauses of his sermon always with those
words, gustate et videte, gustate et videte. When he ended by expressing
his wish that all might have eternal glory, he was pale with weariness.
Drops of perspiration rolled down his wide brow. He had uttered the last
part of his discourse with growing agitation and enthusiasm which he
succeeded in communicating to his hearers. Maria, after her first fit of
weeping, remained comforted and almost happy. Genoveva whispered in her
ear while the priest was descending from the pulpit,--
"Señorita, I just saw Don César in the congregation."
The young girl's face changed slightly. The crowd began to dissolve,
spreading out over the whole area of the church. The majority of the
people crowded tumultuously to the door, struggling to get out. After
some difficulty Maria and Genoveva succeeded in reaching the portico,
and started on their homeward way. But the Señorita de Elorza kept
frequently turning her head. An elderly gentleman, tall, slender, and
pale, with goatee and long white mustachios, dressed in black from head
to foot, was following them at a considerable distance. As they entered
the arcade of a narrow and lonely street, the caballero hastened his
steps, and the two women lingered for him, so that very soon they were
together. The caballero turned to Maria and said in a low voice,--
"Señorita, last night I returned from where you know."
"I have prayed God to bring you back in safety, Don César."
"Thanks, thanks.[11] Have you finished embroidering the banner?"
"Yes, señor!"
"And the flannel hearts?"
"Those also."
"That is good, señorita; I shall not forget your diligence and
enthusiasm."
Don César did not move a line of his vigorous face during this
conversation. His eyes, which were of a strange intensity gleaming with
ferocity, did not for a moment leave the girl's face. He said nothing
for a time, having something in his mind, and then he broke the silence,
speaking in the curt tone of command,--
"To-morrow at this time be on hand again. We have some commissions to
give you."
"I will not fail you."
Don César noticed that two young men had just turned the corner and were
coming toward them; thereupon, without saying farewell, he left the
women, crossing to the opposite sidewalk.