peasant zealous summit intervals
chef caprice recovery porridge
plaza vespers procession accident
Pilar was a young peasant woman. I do not know from what village she came,
somewhere in the neighborhood of Malaga. She was paid three dollars a
month, and she “found” herself. A man cook in that happy land gets five
dollars a month, but times were bad, and my friends had for three years
to content themselves with a woman cook. She cooked well, though, and
cheerfully, and she prepared more meals in the twenty-four hours than any
other cook I ever heard of.
She seemed to have identified herself thoroughly with the family, and
to work with a zealous love for them all. There was, however, one of
the many children for whom she had a special affection, a very delicate
little maiden of two and a half. During the autumn this child had been
desperately ill. The doctors gave no hope. Pilar in anguish prayed for her
recovery, and promised the Bestower of life that if He would spare little
Anita, she would, before the end of Holy Week, carry to the shrine on the
top of the “Calvary” outside the town, one pound of olive oil to be burned
in His honor. She promised a great many prayers besides, which she managed
to get said, in the intervals of her frying and stewing and boiling.
Well, the little girl, contrary to the doctors, began to mend, and finally
was entirely restored to health. Pilar was most grateful, and said many
_Aves_ in thanksgiving. The winter was a busy one, and then Lent came and
seemed not less busy in that big household. Pilar did not forget the pound
of oil, but there never seemed a moment when she could ask a half day to
go and carry it to the shrine. Holy Week came, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday,--what should she do! She could scarcely get away from her work
even to go out to her parish church on Holy Thursday to say a little
prayer before the Repository, where, throned in flowers and lighted with
myriad candles, the Blessed Sacrament is kept till the morning of Good
Friday.
As to going to seven churches and saying her prayers before each
Repository as other people did, that, alas! was not “for the likes of
her.” She had a dumb, deep-down feeling, however, that the good God knew,
and that it would be all right. On her way back from her hurried prayer at
the church, a procession passed which she watched for a moment. But this
only proved painful, for it had begun to rain, and her pious Southern soul
was aflame with wrath that the image of the Blessed Redeemer should be
exposed to the storm.
“They don’t care about wetting his dear curls,” she cried, “as long as
they can have a good procession.”
She shook her fist at the crowd, and came away in tears. Her mistress, a
devout Catholic, tried to console her by reminding her that, after all, it
was only an image and not the dear Lord she loved. Oh, she knew _that_;
but “it was cruel, but it was shameful!”
She felt as a mother would feel if the dress of her dead baby, or its
little half-worn shoe, were spoiled by the caprice or cold-heartedness of
some one who had no feeling for it. All together Holy Thursday was not
very consoling to Pilar, and the pound of oil grew heavier every hour.
The next day, Good Friday, she had only time to go to church through the
silent streets, where no wheels were heard, and say her prayers and look
at the black, black altars and the veiled statues. That night, after her
work was done, and the last baby had been served with its last porridge,
she put her kitchen in hurried order, and stole out silently. She had
bought the pound of oil at a little shop in the next street and, hiding
it under her shawl, turned her steps towards Barcenillas.
The night was black and tempestuous. A hot, dry wind blew; occasionally a
gust brought a few drops of rain, but more often it was a gale which made
the street lamps blink, and whirled the dust around her. It was a long way
to the suburb; it was late; there were few abroad, but no matter, the good
Lord knew why she was out, and He would take care of her.
There are no street cars running in the days of Holy Week. From Holy
Thursday till after the cathedral bells ring for first vespers on Holy
Saturday, no wheels move in the streets of Malaga.
It was nearly midnight when she got to Barcenillas. She crossed the silent
plaza, passed through the gate, and began the ascent of the steep hill.
There is a great broad road that winds up it, and at every “station” there
is a lamp burning. She knelt at each as she reached it. But the place was
very lonely; the eucalyptus trees shook and whispered to each other, and
the lamps were dim and flickered in the rough wind.
The night before there had been processions all through the night, crowds
upon crowds going up the hill; she would not have been lonely then. But
she could not get away, because of little Josef’s being ill and needing
the water heated for his bath every hour. Yes, it would have been nicer
last night, with all the priests, and all the chanting, and all the
flaming torches. But the good God knew all about it,--why she did not come
then, when she wanted to. She would not worry, but she said her prayers
with chattering teeth, and many furtive looks behind her.
At last she reached the summit, where in a little chapel burned the light
that could be seen for miles around Malaga. There a solitary brother
knelt, saying his beads, and keeping watch. She said her last prayers at
the altar, and left the votive oil with the friar, who commended her piety
and was very kind. As she came out, the clouds broke and the Paschal moon
shone through them, and the broad road led down with smooth ease towards
the sleeping, silent city. Her steps made just as lonely echoes on the
stones of the deserted streets, but she felt herself favored of heaven, as
no doubt she was, and all her fears were gone.
It was after three o’clock when she let herself in at the kitchen door;
and it was several weeks before her mistress learned, by accident, of the
dolorous little pilgrimage.
--MIRIAM COLES HARRIS.