THE CONVENT OF THE BERNARDINES.
The history of colonies is the same everywhere, that is to say, that you
find the old belief, the forgotten manners and customs of the mother
country intact, and almost exaggerated.
Mexico was to Spain what Canada still is to France. In Mexico we,
therefore, find the Spain of the monks, with all the abuses of a
degenerate monastic life; for we are compelled to state that with
few, very few exceptions, the monks of Mexico are far from leading an
exemplary life. A few years ago a Papal legate arrived at Mexico, who
had been sent to try and introduce into the monasteries reforms which
had become urgent; but he soon recognized the impossibility of success,
and returned as he came. This is the history of yesterday and today, and
in the way things are going on, it will be the history of tomorrow.
In spite of the innumerable revolutions the Mexican monks are still
very rich. Among other uses to which they put their money, the best is,
perhaps, lending it out at six per cent., which, let us hasten to add,
is a great blessing in a country where the ordinary interest on borrowed
money is sixteen to eighteen per cent. Still, it appears to us, and we
trust the remark will not be taken in bad part, but little in harmony
with the vocation of the monks and the pure doctrines of religion, which
is so opposed to lending money out at interest, for it has ever seen in
it disguised usury.
We will add, at the risk of incurring the blame of some persons, and
of appearing to emit a paradox, that in this collection of Christian
religious buildings there seems to be kept up the tradition of the
great Mexican Teocali, which contained within its walls seventy-eight
buildings devoted to the Aztec worship.
In the first place, what is the religion professed in Spanish America?
It certainly is not the Catholic faith; and this we can affirm with a
safe conscience, and supply proof if necessary. The Americans of the
south, like all southern peoples, are instinctively Pagans, fond of
war and holidays, making a god of each saint, adoring the Virgin under
a hundred different forms, digging up the old Aztec idols, placing
them in all the Mexican churches, and offering them worship under the
characteristic denomination of Santos antiguos, or ancient saints.
What can be said after this? Simply that the Hispano-Americans never
understood the religion they were compelled to profess; that they care
but very little for it, and in their hearts cling to their old worship
in the terrific proportion of the native to the European population,
that is to say two-thirds to one. Hence the demoralization of the
masses, which is justly complained of, but is the fault of those persons
who, at the outset, believed they could establish the religion of
Christ in their countries by fire and sword--a system, we are bound to
add, scrupulously followed by the Spanish clergy, up to the Proclamation
of the Independence of the colonies.
The Convent of the Bernardines is situated but a short distance from
the Paseo de Bucareli. Not one of the religious communities for women
scattered over Mexico is so rich as this one, for the kings of Spain
and nobles of the highest rank gave it large endowments, which, in the
course of time, have grown into an immense fortune.
The vast site occupied by the Convent of the Bernardines, the thick
walls that surround it, and the numerous domes that crown it,
sufficiently indicate the importance it enjoys at the present day.
Like all the Mexican convents, and especially that at San Francisco, to
which it bears a distant resemblance, the Convent of the Bernardines is
defended by thick walls, flanked by massive buttresses, which give it
the appearance of a fortress. Still the peaceful belfries, and their
cupolas of enamelled porcelain covering so many chapels, allow the pious
destination of the edifice to be recognized. An immense paved court
leads to the principal chapel, which is adorned with a luxury that it
would be difficult to form an idea of in our sceptical Europe.
Behind this first court is the space reserved for the nuns, consisting
of immense cloisters, adorned with pictures by old masters, and white
jasper basins from which limpid fountains rise. Next come immense
huertas with umbrageous walks, wide courtyards, a rich and valuable
library in which the scientific wealth of Mexico lies buried, eight
spacious, comfortable, and airy dormitories, four hundred cells for
the nuns, and a refectory in which four hundred guests can sit without
crowding.
On the day when we introduce the reader into the Convent of the
Bernardines, at about five in the evening, three persons, collected in
a leafy arbour, almost at the end of the garden, were talking together
with considerable animation.
Of these persons, one, the eldest, was a nun, while the other two, girls
of from sixteen to eighteen years of age, wore the garb of novices.
The first was the Mother Superior of the convent, a lady of about fifty
years of age, with delicate and aristocratic features, gentle manners,
and noble and majestic demeanour, whose face displayed kindness and
intelligence.
The second was Doña Anita; we will not draw her portrait, for the reader
has long been acquainted with her.[1] The poor girl, however, was pale
and white as a corpse, her fever-parched eyes were not easy, fixed on
any object, and she looked about her hurriedly and desperately.
The third was Doña Helena Rallier, a light-haired, blue-eyed girl, with
a saucy look, whose velvety cheeks, and noble and well-defined features,
revealed the candour and innocence of youth, combined with the laughing
expressions of a boarder spoiled by an indulgent governess.
Doña Helena was standing a little outside the arbour, leaning against
a tree, and seemed like a vigilant sentry carefully watching lest the
conversation between the Mother Superior and her companion should be
disturbed.
Doña Anita, seated on a stone bench by the side of the Abbess, with her
hand in the elder lady's, and her head resting on her shoulder, was
speaking to her in a faltering voice and broken sentences which found
difficulty in passing her parted lips, while the tears silently ran down
her cheeks, which suffering had rendered pale.
"My kind mother," she said, and her voice, was harmonious as the sigh
of an Æolian harp, "I know not how to thank you for your inexhaustible
kindness towards me. Alas! you are at present my only friend; why may
I not be allowed to remain always by your side? I should be so glad to
take my vows and pass my life in this convent under your benevolent
protection."
"My dear child," the Abbess said gently, "God is great, his power is
infinite; hence, why despair? Alas! doubt leads to denial; you are still
almost a child. Who knows what joy and happiness the future may still
have in store for you?"
The maiden gave a heavy sigh. "Alas!" she murmured, "the future no
longer exists for me, my kind mother; a poor orphan, abandoned without
protection to the power of an unnatural relation, I must endure fearful
tortures, and, under his iron yoke, lead a life of suffering and grief."
"Child," the Abbess said, with gentle sternness, "do not blaspheme; you
are still ignorant, I repeat, of what the future may have in store for
you. You are ungrateful at this moment--ungrateful and selfish."
"I ungrateful! holy mother!" the maiden objected.
"Yes, you are ungrateful, Anita, to us and to yourself. Do you consider
it nothing, after the frightful misfortune that burst on you, to have
returned to this convent in which your childhood was spent, and to have
found among us that family which the world refused you? Is it nothing to
have near you hearts that pity you, and voices that incessantly urge you
to have courage?"
"Courage, sister," Doña Helena's sweet voice said at this moment, like a
soft echo.
The maiden hid her lovely tear-bedewed face in the bosom of the Mother
Superior.
"Pardon me, mother," she continued, "pardon me, but I am crushed by this
struggle, which I have carried on so long without hope. The courage
you attempt to give me cannot, in spite of my efforts, penetrate to my
heart, for I have the fatal conviction that, whatever you may do, you
will not succeed in preventing the frightful misfortune suspended over
my head."
"Let us reason a little, my child, like sensible persons; up to the
present, at least, we have succeeded in concealing from everybody the
happy return of your senses."
"Happy!" she sighed.
"Yes, happy; for with the intellect faith, that is to say, strength,
returned to you. Well, while your guardian believes you still insane,
and is compelled, in spite of himself, to suspend his schemes with
reference to you, I have been employing all the influence my high
position gives me, and my family connections. I have had a petition on
your behalf presented to the President of the Republic by sure hands;
this petition is supported by the greatest names in Mexico, and I ask in
it that the marriage with which you are menaced may not be contracted
against your will; in a word, I ask that your guardian may be prevented
taking any steps till you are in a proper condition to say yes or no."
"Have you really done that, my good mother?" the maiden exclaimed, as
she threw her arms in real delight round the elder lady's neck.
"Yes, I have done so, my child, and I am expecting every moment a reply,
which I hope will be favourable."
"Oh, mother, my real mother, if that succeeds I shall be saved."
"Do not go from one extreme to the other, my child; all is uncertain
yet, and heaven alone knows whether we shall be successful."
"Oh, God will not abandon a poor orphan."
"God, my child, chastens those He loves; have confidence in Him, and his
right hand will be extended over you to sustain you in adversity."
"Sister Redemption is coming this way, holy mother," Doña Helena said at
this moment.
At a sign from the Mother Superior, Doña Anita withdrew to the other end
of the bench on which she was seated, folded her arms on her chest, and
let her head droop.
"Are you looking for our mother, sister?" Doña Helena asked a rather
elderly lay sister, who was looking to the right and left as if really
seeking somebody.
"Yes, sister," the lay sister answered, "I wish to deliver a message
with which I am entrusted for our mother."
"Then enter this arbour, sister, and you will find her reposing there."
The lay sister entered the arbour, approached the Mother Superior,
stopped modestly three paces from her, folded her arms on her breast,
looked down respectfully, and waited till she was spoken to.
"What do you desire, daughter?" the Mother Superior asked her.
"Your blessing, in the first place, holy mother," the lay sister
answered.
"I can give it you, daughter; and now what message have you for me?"
"Holy mother, a gentleman of lofty bearing, called Don Serapio de la
Ronda, wishes to speak with you privately; the sister porter took him
into the parlour, where he is waiting for you."
"I will be with him directly, daughter; tell the sister porter to
apologize in my name to the gentleman, if I keep him waiting longer than
I like, owing to my advanced age. Go on, I follow you."
The lay sister bowed respectfully to the abbess, and went away to
deliver the message with which she was entrusted. The abbess rose, and
the two girls sprang forward to support her; but she stopped them.
"Remain here till the Oración, my children," she said to them, "converse
together; but be prudent, and do not let yourselves be surprised; after
the Oración, you will come and converse in my cell."
Then after giving Doña Anita a parting kiss, the Mother Superior went
away, sorely troubled in mind at this visit from a man she did not know,
and whose name she now heard for the first time. When she entered the
parlour, the abbess examined with a hasty glance the person who asked to
see her, and who, on perceiving her, rose from his chair, and bowed to
her respectfully. This first glance was favourable to the stranger, in
whom the reader has doubtless already recognized Valentine Guillois.
"Pray resume your seat, caballero," the abbess said to him, "if your
conversation is to last any time, we shall talk more comfortably when
sitting."
Valentine bowed, offered the lady a chair, and then returned to his own.
"Señor Don Serapio de la Ronda was announced to me," the lady continued
after a short silence.
"I am that gentleman, madam," Valentine said courteously.
"I am at your orders, caballero, and ready to listen to any
communication you may have to make."
"Madam, I have nothing personal to say to you; I am merely commissioned
by the Minister of the Home Department to deliver you this letter, to
which I have a few words to add."
While uttering this sentence with exquisite politeness, Valentine
offered the abbess a letter bearing the ministerial arms.
"Pray open the letter, madam," he added, on seeing that, through
politeness, she held it in her hand unopened, "you must render yourself
acquainted with its contents in order to understand the meaning of the
words I have to add."
The abbess, who in her heart was impatient to know what the minister had
to say to her, offered no objection, and broke the seal of the letter,
which she hurriedly perused. On reading it a lively expression of joy
lit up her face.
"Then," she exclaimed, "his excellency deigns to grant my request?"
"Yes, madam; you remain, until fresh orders, responsible for your
young charge. You have only to deal with the minister in the matter;
and," he added, with a purposed stress on the words, "in the event of
General Guerrero, the guardian of Doña Anita, trying to force you into
surrendering her to him, you are authorized to conceal the young lady,
who is for so many reasons an object of interest, in any house of the
order you please."
"Oh, señor," she answered, her eyes filling with tears of joy, "pray
thank his excellency in my name for the act of justice he has deigned to
perform in favour of this unfortunate young lady."
"I will have that honour, madam," Valentine said, as he rose; "and now
that I have delivered my message, permit me to take leave of you, while
congratulating myself that I was selected by his Excellency the Minister
to be his intermediary with you."
At the moment when Valentine left the convent, Carnero entered it,
accompanied by a monk, whose hood was pulled down over his face. The
hunter and the capataz exchanged a side glance, but did not speak.
[1] See "Tiger Slayer." Same publishers.