Slowly, very slowly, the greatest and most beautiful of the Missions of
Alta California had risen among the swelling lomas of the valley of the
San Juan. Brick by brick and stone by stone the simple Indian laborers,
under the tutelage of the Fathers, had reared a structure which, in its
way and place, might not unfitly be compared with those great cathedrals
of Europe in which we see, as in a parable, how inward love and faith
work out in material beauty. Huge timbers of pine and sycamore, hewn on
Palomar, the Mountain of Doves, many miles away, had been hauled by oxen
over trackless hill and valley, to form the joists and rafters that
one sees to-day, after the lapse of more than a century, firm and
serviceable, fastened with wooden spikes and stout rawhide lashings.
In all these labors Te-filo had taken a principal part. As a child he
had been christened with the name of Lucas, and had carried it through
boyhood. But when about fourteen years of age, he had been transferred
from the duties of a herder to learn the simple crafts taught in the
workshops; and his industry and intelligence had so commended him to the
overseers and Padre Josef that one day the latter, praising him for some
task especially well performed, had said, half in jest, "Hijo mio, we
must christen you over again. You are excelent'simo, as San Lucas said
of San Te-filo in the superscription to his holy evangel; so I shall
call you Te-filo, excelent'simo Te-filo, instead of Lucas; why not?" And
Te-filo the boy became from that day, though Lucas he remained in the
record of baptisms kept in the tall sheepskin volume in the Father's
closet.
So useful and diligent was the boy that the Father soon took him to be
his own body servant, and many an hour did Te-filo pass handling
with religious care the sacred vessels and vestments and books in the
sacristy and in the Father's rooms. One day the Father noticed with
displeasure that on the blank flyleaf of his best illuminated missal,
lately sent to him by a friend in his old college at Cordoba, in Spain,
there were some rough drawings in red and blue. Evidently the person
who had drawn them had tried to obliterate his work, but had only partly
succeeded. The Father could not help noticing, however, that, crude as
were the formal floral designs and sacred emblems that had been copied
by the culprit from the emblazoned letterings and chapter headings of
the missal, the work showed undoubted taste and talent; and this gave
him an idea. Why should he not adorn with frescoes, in color, the
cornices, and perhaps even the dome, of the new church? It would be a
notable addition, and would give a finishing touch to the beauty of
the building, if it could be done. And here, evidently, was a hand that
might be trained to do it--the hand, probably, of his favorite, Te-filo,
for he alone had access to the book-shelves in the Father's room.
So when next he saw the boy he asked, "Te-filo, who has been drawing
in my new missal?" The boy hung his head, and the Father, taking
his silence as an admission of guilt, added, "That was wrong of you,
Te-filo, and I must give you some penance to remind you not to do such
mischief again. Do you know, boy, what that book is worth? Not less than
twenty pesos, Te-filo, or even more. That is one year's wages of Agust'n
the mayordomo, so you can see such things must be left alone. But come
to me this evening after the Doctrina, and I will set you your penance."
When the boy, with downcast look, came to him in his room that evening,
the Father said to him, "What made you do it, Te-filo?" And the boy
answered "I did not mean to do harm, Padre, but the pictures are so
beautiful, and I tried to make some like them. Then I tried to rub them
out, but they would not come off." The Father smiled indulgently. "No,
my son," he said, "the wrong things we do, even innocently, do not come
off. You must remember that in future. But they can be forgiven by the
good God, Te-filo, and even so I forgive you for the book. And your
penance shall be to come each evening at this time and learn to draw
properly. What do you say?"
"Oh, Padre!" cried the boy; and he took the Father's hand and put it,
Indian fashion, to his forehead in token of gratitude.
Agust'n the mayordomo was, next to the Father, the most important man
about the Mission. He it was who, under the priest's supervision, had
charge not only of the labors and general governance of the Indians, but
also of the business affairs of the establishment, even to the care
and sale of the cattle, hides, and tallow, which, produced in enormous
quantity, were almost the only, but a quite considerable, source of
revenue to all the California Missions. Agust'n was a half-breed, or
mestizo, the son of one of the Spanish soldiers who had come to Alta
California with Serra and Portola. His mother was an Indian woman, to
whom his father had been married by Father Serra himself. That was in
1776, the year of the establishment of the Mission, and Agust'n, the
oldest son of the marriage, had risen before the age of thirty-five to
his important post, partly by natural ability, and partly by the fact of
his mixed Spanish blood, which of itself gave him prestige and authority
with the Indians. He had quarters adjoining those of the Father, on the
main corridor of the cuadro.
His family consisted of his wife, Juana, chief of the lavanderas, or
washwomen, and several children, the oldest of whom, Magdalena, was
now growing into the fresh and early womanhood of these Southern races.
Already she had lovers, who took such opportunities as the strict
discipline of the Mission life allowed (and they were rare) to endeavor
to awake a response in her heart. But she held herself aloof from all.
Proud of the Spanish blood in her veins, though that blood was but that
of a common soldier, she counted herself to be of the gente de razon,
far above the level of the mere Indians, her mother's people. And,
indeed, in her finer features, quick glance, and more spirited bearing,
the difference of strain was manifest: the Latin admixture, though only
fractional, justified itself in evident supremacy over the aborigine.
This proud element in Magdalena's nature had the unfortunate effect of
bringing her into conflict with the Father and the Church. Not that she
would, out of mere perverseness, have refused obedience, but the Father,
himself a Spaniard, viewed all who were not of the sangre pura as
Indians, all alike. This the girl felt and resented, and her resentment,
though unexpressed, showed in numberless ways; while the Father, on his
part, viewed her only as an obstinate Indian child, naturally averse to
good influences.
It chanced one day that Agust'n, overlooking the making of adobe bricks
at the clay pits a mile from the Mission, needed to send a message to
the Father on some point concerning the work; and, Magdalena having been
sent to carry their midday meal to the brick-makers, he entrusted her
with the errand. Failing to find the Father in his private room, she
went to the next door of the corridor. It was half open, and she glanced
in. The Father was not there, but she saw, bending over a table set
against the window, a young man. His back was turned to her, and he was
so intent upon his occupation that he had not heard her step. She
should have turned and gone, for the rules were strict, and forbade
conversation between the girls and young men of the Mission: but her
curiosity was keen to know what the Indian boy (as she knew he must be)
was doing in the Father's quarters, and what it could be that kept him
so absorbed. Moreover, a spirit of defiance was in her. If the Father
found her loitering there he would reprimand her. Well, she would break
the rules: she was no Indian; and if he caught her there she would tell
him so. Yes, she would see what the young man was doing; she wanted
to know, and she would know. Quietly she stole into the room and edged
round to one side go that she could see partly across the table. The
young man was painting, in wonderful colors, on a sheet of parchment,
painting wonderful things--beasts, and birds, and flowers, and even
angels, a wonder of wonders to the simple girl.
At some involuntary sound that she made, the young man--it was
Te-filo--turned and saw her. Her eyes were fixed upon him, wide with
wonder, and her hands half raised in childlike rapture, while her
slender figure, so different from the heavier forms of the Indian girls,
gave her, to his eyes, the look and bearing of one of the very angels
he had been copying. It was a marvel on his side, too; and for a few
moments the two regarded each other, while love (that is born so often
of sudden wonder in innocent hearts) awoke and stirred in both their
breasts. They had often met before, but it had been casually, and the
hour had not been ripe. Now he saw her and loved her; she saw him,
an Indian, indeed, but transfigured, for he was an Indian who worked
wonders. And the Spaniard in her gave way, that moment, to the Indian,
and she loved an Indian, as her father had done.
He was the first to recover his self-possession. "The Father is not
here," he said. "He will be back soon, for he set me my task until he
should return, and I have almost done it." "Is that your task?" she
asked. "How beautiful! How wonderful!" And she stepped nearer the table.
"Show me, how do you make them? I never thought that Indians could make
such things. I have heard my father say that holy men in Spain could
make angels, but you are an Indian: how can you do it?" "I cannot tell
you," he said slowly: then "Yes, I will tell you," and a flush came on
his dark face, and a light into his eyes, as he looked at her. "I do not
make them, these angels; they come to me because the Father has taught
me to love them. He says the angels come to those who love them, and any
one can love them. And when I saw you," he went on, his eyes upon her
eager face, "I thought you were the angel I was painting, for you are
like an angel, too; and now I shall always love you, and it will be easy
to paint. Listen! the Father is coming. You must go quickly, but now
I have seen you I must see you again. You are Magdalena, Agust'n's
daughter. I shall find you to-morrow when I take the orders for the work
to your father."
Magdalena slipped away, and thus was begun the short but happy love of
Te-filo and Magdalena short, like the history of the beautiful Mission
itself; happy, as all love is happy, let its end be what it may. Many a
time they met in secret, for sweet interviews or even a hurried word
or glance; but love grows best in the shade. And meanwhile, the great
church had been growing too, and now it was Te-filo's proud task to
paint the frescoes on the walls and dome, as the Father had hoped.
Simple designs they were to be at first,--floral emblems and the symbols
used for ages by the Church, but later Te-filo was to essay much
more ambitious things, perhaps even the archangels, and San Juan, the
soldier-saint, himself.
It was the winter of 1812, and Te-filo and Magdalena had loved each
other for over a year, when Te-filo one day spoke to the Father of
Magdalena, and said that he wished to marry her. For months Magdalena
had tried to be dutiful and to engage the Father's interest, on her
side, in their favor, in preparation for Te-filo's broaching of
the subject to him. But she felt always that he remembered her old
hostility, and that he still considered her a mere disaffected Indian
of his flock. They had often talked of this, but Te-filo, who loved the
Father for the special kindness he had always shown him, believed that
he would agree to the marriage. Why should he not? he said. It would
make no difference to him, and he, Te-filo, would work better than ever,
to show his gratitude.
When at last he spoke of the matter, the Father peremptorily denied his
request. Agust'n's daughter was an obstinate, perverse child, and would
only lead Te-filo away too. He would give thought to the matter, and
would see what girl there was suitable for him, and then, if he wished
to marry, well and good. He would give them two rooms in the corridor,
near his own, and would allow him pay as his body servant and for
his work, and perhaps other privileges as well. And that was all; for
Te-filo knew that he would not be moved from his decision. Good man as
the Father was, he had the Spaniard's failing in dealing with a subject
race a certain hardness arising from a position of authority not allied
with responsibility--except to God, and that, indeed, the Father felt,
but he conceived that his duty to his Indians, apart from his spiritual
ministrations, was entirely comprised in the teaching, feeding, and just
governing of them.
When Te-filo told Magdalena, at their next meeting, what the Father had
said, the girl was enraged. "So he thinks I am not good enough for you!"
she cried: "And I have done everything to please him. But he is only a
priest, and has no heart. Ah! those Spaniards, I hate them!" And then,
with a woman's illogical turn--"Well, he shall see that I am Spanish
too. We will go away to the Mission at San Diego, Te-filo. My father's
brother is there, and I have heard my father say that he has influence
with the priest. He will marry us, and you can work there as well as
here."
But Te-filo was in doubt. His love for Magdalena and his love and
reverence for the Father contended. He was a simple, guileless soul, and
the thought of ingratitude to his benefactor was a misery to him. Some
other way must be found: the saints would help them; he would pray to
San Lucas, who, the Father had told him, was his patron, for he had been
born on his day and christened by his name: and Magdalena must pray,
too.
Magdalena, however, took up now an attitude of open rebellion, and
absented herself entirely from the services of the Church. This was
another trouble to Te-filo, and daily over his work he prayed to San
Lucas, and pondered what was best to do. But days and weeks went on, and
his inward disquiet began to take effect in his appearance and behavior.
The Father, busy with the multitudinous affairs of the Mission, had
entirely forgotten the matter of Te-filo's request: but one day he
chanced to notice his favorite's listless air, and it recalled the
affair to his mind. A day or two afterwards he said to Te-filo, as the
latter was with him in the sacristy, "Te-filo, you are dull and not
yourself. You were right, it is time you were married, and I have the
very one for you. It is Ana, the daughter of Manuel, who works in the
smith's shop. She is a good girl. I will speak of it to her father."
"Padre," said Te-filo, "I cannot marry Ana, nor any one else but
Magdalena, for I love her. Oh, Padre,"--and he dropped on his knees
before the priest,--"let us be married. You do not know, she has tried
hard to be good, and to please you. And I will work for you all my life.
I have been praying to San Lucas ever since I told you, but he has not
done anything."
The priest was moved by the earnestness of the boy--for boy he had
always considered him, and indeed he was little more in age. "Well, hijo
mio," he said, "I do not know about that. The saints always hear us,
as I have told you, and perhaps--who knows?--San Lucas may do something
yet. Or, perhaps," he added with a smile, "it is because we changed your
name, and he does not look on you as his son. Well, that was my fault.
But you say that Magdalena has tried to please me? Good, then we will
see. I will set her a penance, for she has not behaved well; then
I shall see if she wishes to please me. To-morrow will be a day of
observance, and there will be early mass in the church. Tell Magdalena,
Te-filo, that she must come to mass and carry a penitent's candle. Let
her be in the front row of the women. If I see her there I shall know
she is obedient, and perhaps, yes, perhaps,--well, we will see about the
rest."
"Oh, Padre," Te-filo exclaimed, "you are my padre, indeed;" and he put
the priest's hand to his forehead. "I know she will come, and I know she
wishes to please you. And Padre," he said, "I have made a picture of the
angels of La Navidad. I did it to please you" (he was about to add, "and
Magdalena," but prudence stopped him in time). "I thought--I thought--"
"Well, what did you think, hijo mio?" asked the priest.
"I thought, Padre, that if you liked it, and said it was done well, it
would be fine on the high roof, Padre, the angels, four of them, in the
middle of the roof: like this, Padre, see!" An he raised his hands in
the attitude in which he had seen Magdalena when she met him in the
Father's room. "I could do it, Padre, if you like it."
"Angels, Te-filo!" said the Father. "Hm! I do not know. It is hard to
paint the holy angels, and diligent as you have been, I hardly think you
are an Angelico. But go and bring what you have done, and I will see.
Indeed, it is just what I would have, but it must be well done, or it
will spoil the rest."
The boy ran off, and returned quickly with a large sheepskin on which
he had drawn in colors a really fine design: four angels in attitudes of
worship, with uplifted hands, and eyes that expressed, crudely yet well,
the wonder that the Holy Ones might well feel at the Miracle of the
Manger.
"Ah, and did you really draw this?" asked the priest. "It is excellent,
Te-filo; we must make a painter of you in earnest; perhaps we might even
send you to Mexico to be taught by a good artist. There is one of the
Brothers at the College of San Fernando who would train you well. I
think this is what San Lucas has been doing for you, after all. But how
did you do it, Te-filo? What did you draw from?"
"Padre," said Te-filo tremblingly, "I will tell you, but do not be
angry. It was Magdalena. I saw her once, at first, and she was like
that, yes, exactly like that, with her hands up, so. She was like one of
the angels in your new missal, and I remembered, and drew it many times
over, and do you really think it will do for the church, Padre?" he
finished eagerly, his face aflush with excitement.
"Yes, it is certainly good enough, Te-filo," said the Father. "We will
have gold round the heads and golden stars on the robes, and San Juan's
church shall be the finest in California. Though how it comes that the
girl Magdalena can have been your model passes my understanding. Indeed,
I think it is the good San Lucas, or San Juan himself, who has helped
you. Well, you deserve praise, Te-filo, and perhaps some reward. But go
now, and tell Magdalena to come to first mass to-morrow, as I said. You
may take a candle from the sacristy and give it to her."
That evening Te-filo told Magdalena all that had happened. But her
Spanish blood was in hot rebellion, and in spite of her love and
Te-filo's entreaties, she would not give in. To carry a candle, as if
she were one of the Indian girls, caught in disgrace! No, it was too
much. Why, the whole pueblo would see her, and laugh (which, indeed, was
true for she had held herself above the girls of the Mission, and was
not loved by them). In vain Te-filo told her of the Father's words
about sending him to Mexico to become a real painter. No, it would be
a victory for the Father if she gave in, and he should see that she was
Spanish as well as he. And contemptuously she tossed the candle aside
into the chia bushes in the courtyard, where they talked in the shadow
of the arches.
It was with a heavy heart that Te-filo left her, yet with a faint hope
that she might repent and come to mass in the morning. It was a dull,
oppressive night, such as comes rarely in California, even in the summer
heats. Te-filo slept but little, and twice during the night he got up
from his bench bed and prayed to San Lucas, for this seemed to be the
final chance for his and Magdalena's happiness, and after his interview
with the Father all had seemed so bright that it was hard now to give
up hope. Magdalena, on her part, slept not at all, but she did not
pray. Instead, she lay with wide-open eyes in the darkness of her little
windowless room, looking up at the low ceiling and fighting over in her
heart the old battle of love and pride. One might say that love stood
for the Indian and pride for the Spaniard in her, and that it was an
incident in the old feud that began with Cortes and Malinche. And then
she thought of what Te-filo had told her, how he had told the Father
about painting the angels for the church because he had seen her
standing with upraised hands, like an angel, that day. Poor Te-filo! how
he loved her! and how she loved him, too! It was hard, very hard,
that there was so much trouble. How happy they might be! And he was so
clever, and might be a real painter, not working in the fields or at the
workshops, but only painting angels and beautiful things. And she was
the cause, in a way, of his being so clever she was proud of that, and
the thought made her glow, simple Indian girl as she was, with a woman's
sweetest thrill--he was clever because of her! Yet now she must spoil it
all, and all for the Father's hardness.
But then, must she?--for she knew that it lay with her, after all. She
could make all so happy why not? Ah, but the humiliation! No, she could
not. But could she not? The humiliation would soon be over, and the
prize was so great. They might be married, and even at once. Yes and
no, yes and no--so the fight went on, as the hours dragged past and the
heavy air pressed upon her restless nerves and forbade sleep.
It would soon be dawn, and now she must decide. Then the thought came
to her, should she pray to San Lucas, as Te-filo had been doing? Perhaps
after all he would help them. She got up, and creeping quietly into the
adjoining room, where her father and mother were asleep, she knelt at
the little crucifix that hung on the wall, and tried to pray. But no
words would come, and she was about to rise and go back to her bed when
it seemed as if words were whispered in her ear, echoes carried in the
brain from something she had once heard, no doubt, in the church--". . .
levant--a los humildes . . . raised up the humble. . ." She had noticed
the words, because they were so averse to her ways of thought: the
humble, why, that was like the Indians whom she had always despised.
But, after all, perhaps that was San Lucas's answer; for she saw that it
would settle all her trouble. Well, be it so she would be humble, if San
Lucas told her; and she would obey the Father, and then, at last, all
would be well.
She rose, and, remembering the hateful candle, went into the quadrangle
and searched for it. There it lay among the chias, and she picked it up
and carried it to her room. Light was dawning in the east, and she did
not lie down again, but stood in her door, making up her mind to the
humiliation she was to undergo for the sake of Te-filo and their love.
She did not waver now; indeed, in her young, strong passion she gloried
in the sacrifice she would make for love's sake. She dressed herself
with care. They ate no meal that day before mass, which was to be at six
in the morning. If only, she thought, she could tell Te-filo that she
had resolved to do the penance, it would make it so much easier; but
there would be no way of seeing him until they were at the service,
and then the men would be on one side and the women on the other; so he
would not know until he saw her, and perhaps he would not look, for she
had said she would not go. Then a thought came to her with delicious
joy: she would make up to him, and punish herself, for having refused,
by waiting till the people were all in the church, and then going in
alone, so that everybody would see her, and Te-filo would see what she
could do for him.
Solemnly the great bell sounded out the summons to prayer. It was
a special day, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, and all were
expected to come to mass, old and young. The morning was heavy and
airless, and the people, rising from sleepless or restless beds, moved
languidly and in hardly broken silence toward the church, and, entering,
ranged themselves, men and women separately, on either side of the
building, facing the altar. Te-filo was in his usual place, near the
front, and on the margin of the open aisle that divided the sexes. All
had gathered before the bell ceased to sound, but Magdalena was not
there. With a sinking heart Te-filo had watched, hoping against hope
that she would repent and come. He saw Agust'n and Juana come in, and
Agust'n go to the place near the altar which he held as mayordomo, while
Juana merged in the crowd of undistinguished Indian women. So Magdalena
was obstinate, and the prospect of happiness that had looked so bright
yesterday was all over and spoiled. But he must not blame her: she was
not just an Indian, like him. And with a sigh he ceased to watch the
doorway and turned to face the altar.
The Father entered, and bent the knee before the altar in view of the
congregation, who also had knelt on his appearing. The church was in
darkness but for the illumination of candles about the altar and a gray
and sickly daylight that came in at the open door. As the Father turned
to the people there was a stir among the women who had taken places near
the entrance, and a figure appeared, carrying a lighted candle. It was
Magdalena. She walked steadily up the passageway between the men and the
women toward the priest, who stood facing her. A black shawl was thrown
over her head, and her face, pale with sleeplessness and trouble, and
lighted by the candle she carried, seemed to glow against its dark
background as if illuminated from within. Te-filo had turned at the
sound of her entrance, and watched her as if fascinated during her
passage up the aisle. She did not see him, for her eyes were on the
ground: but she knew his place, for he had often told her; and as she
came near to where he was kneeling she turned a little toward him, and
murmured, so that only he should understand, "It is for thee, Te-filo."
As she came close to the altar step, the Father's eyes rested on her
with a glance that seemed to say, "It is well, my daughter." Then he
began the service, while Magdalena knelt in the front row of the women.
There was an unusual stillness among the people, for the incident of
Magdalena's penance had not been known, and had taken all but Te-filo
and the Father by surprise; while the sultry half darkness and the
stagnant air seemed to add to the feeling of awe. So the service
proceeded.
Suddenly, without warning, at the offertory, destruction broke. There
came a shock; a pause of terror; another shock, that made the solid
walls rock to and fro; a terrible cry, "El temblor!" and in panic the
people rose from their knees and rushed toward the door. A third shock
came, heavier than the other two; and cornices and masses of plaster
began to fall.
At the first cry of the frightened people Te-filo had risen to his feet.
He looked to where Magdalena had been kneeling, and saw her standing,
still holding her penitent's candle alight in her hand. As the people
rushed toward the door both he and Magdalena were almost carried away by
the panic-stricken throng; but he made his way to her, and they two were
for a few moments alone, but for the priest, near the altar. When the
third shock came he threw his arms about her. She seemed to have no
fear, nor had he. The spirits of both had been under strain, and one
thing only had been in their thoughts for hours before, so that they
were in great degree oblivious to the general terror. As Te-filo put
his arms about her, a bright smile came on her white face, and she said,
pointing to the candle, "It was hard, but I prayed to San Lucas, and he
told me to do it, and now we can be married." The shock continued, and
became more violent. Pointing to the candle she said again, "I did it
for thee, Te-filo mio." As she spoke, there came a terrifying sound from
above: the great stone dome above them parted, and looking up they saw
for a moment the calm face of the sky through a jagged rent in the roof;
then the ponderous structure crashed down in ruin upon them and the
huddled crowd of Indians that still struggled for escape.
They were found the next day, their bodies crushed together. In her hand
was still the penitent's candle.
In one grave the Father, who escaped the death that fell that day upon
twoscore of his flock, buried Te-filo and Magdalena; for, said he,
making over them the Holy Sign, they were married, indeed, though in
death. Still may be seen on the shattered walls and roof of the Mission
church some faded, simple frescoings, the unfinished task and the
memorial of Te-filo, the painter-neophyte of San Juan Capistrano.