table. His pale, near-sighted eyes had always the look of peering into
distance. "_C'est ça, c'est vrai_," he murmured. "But how," he
exclaimed as he filled the Bishop's plate again, "how can a man make a
proper soup without leeks, that king of vegetables? We cannot go on
eating onions for ever."
After carrying away the _soupière_, he brought in the roast chicken and
_pommes sautées_. "And salad, Jean," he continued as he began to carve.
"Are we to eat dried beans and roots for the rest of our lives? Surely
we must find time to make a garden. Ah, my garden at Sandusky! And you
could snatch me away from it! You will admit that you never ate better
lettuces in France. And my vineyard; a natural habitat for the vine,
that. I tell you, the shores of Lake Erie will be covered with vineyards
one day. I envy the man who is drinking my wine. Ah well, that is a
missionary's life; to plant where another shall reap."
As this was Christmas Day, the two friends were speaking in their native
tongue. For years they had made it a practice to speak English together,
except upon very special occasions, and of late they conversed in
Spanish, in which they both needed to gain fluency.
"And yet sometimes you used to chafe a little at your dear Sandusky and
its comforts," the Bishop reminded him--"to say that you would end a
home-staying parish priest, after all."
"Of course, one wants to eat one's cake and have it, as they say in
Ohio. But no farther, Jean. This is far enough. Do not drag me any
farther." Father Joseph began gently to coax the cork from a bottle of
red wine with his fingers. "This I begged for your dinner at the
hacienda where I went to baptize the baby on St. Thomas's Day. It is not
easy to separate these rich Mexicans from their French wine. They know
its worth." He poured a few drops and tried it. "A slight taste of the
cork; they do not know how to keep it properly. However, it is quite
good enough for missionaries."
"You ask me not to drag you any farther, Joseph. I wish," Bishop Latour
leaned back in his chair and locked his hands together beneath his chin,
"I wish I knew how far this is! Does anyone know the extent of this
diocese, or of this territory? The Commandant at the Fort seems as much
in the dark as I. He says I can get some information from the scout, Kit
Carson, who lives at Taos."
"Don't begin worrying about the diocese, Jean. For the present, Santa
Fé is the diocese. Establish order at home. To-morrow I will have a
reckoning with the churchwardens, who allowed that band of drunken
cowboys to come in to the midnight Mass and defile the font. There is
enough to do here. _Festina lente_. I have made a resolve not to go more
than three days' journey from Santa Fé for one year."
The Bishop smiled and shook his head. "And when you were at the
Seminary, you made a resolve to lead a life of contemplation."
A light leaped into Father Joseph's homely face. "I have not yet
renounced that hope. One day you will release me, and I will return to
some religious house in France and end my days in devotion to the Holy
Mother. For the time being, it is my destiny to serve Her in action. But
this is far enough, Jean."
The Bishop again shook his head and murmured, "Who knows how far?"
The vary little priest whose life was to be a succession of mountain
ranges, pathless deserts, yawning canyons and swollen rivers, who was to
carry the Cross into territories yet unknown and unnamed, who would wear
down mules and horses and scouts and stage-drivers, to-night looked
apprehensively at his superior and repeated, "No more, Jean. This is far
enough." Then making haste to change the subject, he said briskly, "A
bean salad was the best I could do for you; but with onion, and just a
suspicion of salt pork, it is not so bad."
Over the compote of dried plums they fell to talking of the great yellow
ones that grew in the old Latour garden at home. Their thoughts met in
that tilted cobble street, winding down a hill, with the uneven garden
walls and tall horse-chestnuts on either side; a lonely street after
nightfall, with soft street lamps shaped like lanterns at the darkest
turnings. At the end of it was the church where the Bishop made his
first Communion, with a grove of flat-cut plane trees in front, under
which the market was held on Tuesdays and Fridays.
While they lingered over these memories--an indulgence they seldom
permitted themselves--the two missionaries were startled by a volley of
rifle-shots and blood-curdling yells without, and the galloping of
horses. The Bishop half rose, but Father Joseph reassured him with a
shrug.
"Do not discompose yourself. The same thing happened here on the eve of
All Souls' Day. A band of drunken cowboys, like those who came into the
church last night, go out to the pueblo and get the Tesuque Indian boys
drunk, and then they ride in to serenade the soldiers at the Fort in
this manner."
4
A BELL AND A MIRACLE
ON the morning after the Bishop's return from Durango, after his first
night in his Episcopal residence, he had a pleasant awakening from
sleep. He had ridden into the courtyard after nightfall, having changed
horses at a _rancho_ and pushed on nearly sixty miles in order to reach
home. Consequently he slept late the next morning--did not awaken until
six o'clock, when he heard the Angelus ringing. He recovered
consciousness slowly, unwilling to let go of a pleasing delusion that he
was in Rome. Still half believing that he was lodged near St. John
Lateran, he yet heard every stroke of the Ave Maria bell, marvelling to
hear it rung correctly (nine quick strokes in all, divided into threes,
with an interval between); and from a bell with beautiful tone. Full,
clear, with something bland and suave, each note floated through the air
like a globe of silver. Before the nine strokes were done Rome faded,
and behind it he sensed something Eastern, with palm trees,--Jerusalem,
perhaps, though he had never been there. Keeping his eyes closed, he
cherished for a moment this sudden, pervasive sense of the East. Once
before he had been carried out of the body thus to a place far away. It
had happened in a street in New Orleans. He had turned a corner and come
upon an old woman with a basket of yellow flowers; sprays of yellow
sending out a honey-sweet perfume. Mimosa--but before he could think of
the name he was overcome by a feeling of place, was dropped, cassock and
all, into a garden in the south of France where he had been sent one
winter in his childhood to recover from an illness. And now this silvery
bell note had carried him farther and faster than sound could travel.
When he joined Father Vaillant at coffee, that impetuous man who could
never keep a secret asked him anxiously whether he had heard anything.
"I thought I heard the Angelus, Father Joseph, but my reason tells me
that only a long sea voyage could bring me within sound of such a bell."
"Not at all," said Father Joseph briskly. "I found that remarkable bell
here, in the basement of old San Miguel. They tell me it has been here a
hundred years or more. There is no church tower in the place strong
enough to hold it--it is very thick and must weigh close upon eight
hundred pounds. But I had a scaffolding built in the churchyard, and
with the help of oxen we raised it and got it swung on crossbeams. I
taught a Mexican boy to ring it properly against your return."
"But how could it have come here? It is Spanish, I suppose?"
"Yes, the inscription is in Spanish, to St. Joseph, and the date is
1356. It must have been brought up from Mexico City in an ox-cart. A
heroic undertaking, certainly. Nobody knows where it was cast. But they
do tell a story about it: that it was pledged to St. Joseph in the wars
with the Moors, and that the people of some besieged city brought all
their plate and silver and gold ornaments and threw them in with the
baser metals. There is certainly a good deal of silver in the bell,
nothing else would account for its tone."
Father Latour reflected. "And the silver of the Spaniards was really
Moorish, was it not? If not actually of Moorish make, copied from their
design. The Spaniards knew nothing about working silver except as they
learned it from the Moors."
"What are you doing, Jean? Trying to make my bell out an infidel?"
Father Joseph asked impatiently.
The Bishop smiled. "I am trying to account for the fact that when I
heard it this morning it struck me at once as something oriental. A
learned Scotch Jesuit in Montreal told me that our first bells, and the
introduction of the bell in the service all over Europe, originally came
from the East. He said the Templars brought the Angelus back from the
Crusades, and it is really an adaptation of a Moslem custom."
Father Vaillant sniffed. "I notice that scholars always manage to dig
out something belittling," he complained.
"Belittling? I should say the reverse. I am glad to think there is
Moorish silver in your bell. When we first came here, the one good
workman we found in Santa Fé was a silversmith. The Spaniards handed on
their skill to the Mexicans, and the Mexicans have taught the Navajos to
work silver; but it all came from the Moors."
"I am no scholar, as you know," said Father Vaillant rising. "And this
morning we have many practical affairs to occupy us. I have promised
that you will give an audience to a good old man, a native priest from
the Indian mission at Santa Clara, who is returning from Mexico. He has
just been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe and
has been much edified. He would like to tell you the story of his
experience. It seems that ever since he was ordained he has desired to
visit the shrine. During your absence I have found how particularly
precious is that shrine to all Catholics in New Mexico. They regard it
as the one absolutely authenticated appearance of the Blessed Virgin in
the New World, and a witness of Her affection for Her Church on this
continent."
The Bishop went into his study, and Father Vaillant brought in Padre
Escolastico Herrera, a man of nearly seventy, who had been forty years
in the ministry, and had just accomplished the pious desire of a
lifetime. His mind was still full of the sweetness of his late
experience. He was so rapt that nothing else interested him. He asked
anxiously whether perhaps the Bishop would have more leisure to attend
to him later in the day. But Father Latour placed a chair for him and
told him to proceed.
The old man thanked him for the privilege of being seated. Leaning
forward, with his hands locked between his knees, he told the whole
story of the miraculous appearance, both because it was so dear to his
heart, and because he was sure that no "American" Bishop would have
heard of the occurrence as it was, though at Rome all the details were
well known and two Popes had sent gifts to the shrine.
On Saturday, December 9th, in the year 1531, a poor neophyte of the
monastery of St. James was hurrying down Tapeyac hill to attend Mass in
the City of Mexico. His name was Juan Diego and he was fifty-five years
old. When he was half way down the hill a light shone in his path, and
the Mother of God appeared to him as a young woman of great beauty, clad
in blue and gold. She greeted him by name and said:
"Juan, seek out thy Bishop and bid him build a church in my honour on
the spot where I now stand. Go then, and I will bide here and await thy
return."
Brother Juan ran into the City and straight to the Bishop's palace,
where he reported the matter. The Bishop was Zumarraga, a Spaniard. He
questioned the monk severely and told him he should have required a sign
of the Lady to assure him that she was indeed the Mother of God and not
some evil spirit. He dismissed the poor brother harshly and set an
attendant to watch his actions.
Juan went forth very downcast and repaired to the house of his uncle,
Bernardino, who was sick of a fever. The two succeeding days he spent in
caring for this aged man who seemed at the point of death. Because of
the Bishop's reproof he had fallen into doubt, and did not return to the
spot where the Lady said She would await him. On Tuesday he left the
City to go back to his monastery to fetch medicines for Bernardino, but
he avoided the place where he had seen the vision and went by another
way.
Again he saw a light in his path and the Virgin appeared to him as
before, saying, "Juan, why goest thou by this way?"
Weeping, he told Her that the Bishop had distrusted his report, and that
he had been employed in caring for his uncle, who was sick unto death.
The Lady spoke to him with all comfort, telling him that his uncle would
be healed within the hour, and that he should return to Bishop Zumarraga
and bid him build a church where She had first appeared to him. It must
be called the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, after Her dear shrine of
that name in Spain. When Brother Juan replied to Her that the Bishop
required a sign, She said: "Go up on the rocks yonder, and gather
roses."
Though it was December and not the season for roses, he ran up among the
rocks and found such roses as he had never seen before. He gathered them
until he had filled his _tilma_. The _tilma_ was a mantle worn only by
the very poor,--a wretched garment loosely woven of coarse vegetable
fibre and sewn down the middle. When he returned to the apparition, She
bent over the flowers and took pains to arrange them, then closed the
ends of the _tilma_ together and said to him:
"Go now, and do not open your mantle until you open it before your
Bishop."
Juan sped into the City and gained admission to the Bishop, who was in
council with his Vicar.
"Your Grace," he said, "the Blessed Lady who appeared to me has sent you
these roses for a sign."
At this he held up one end of his _tilma_ and let the roses fall in
profusion to the floor. To his astonishment, Bishop Zumarraga and his
Vicar instantly fell upon their knees among the flowers. On the inside
of his poor mantle was a painting of the Blessed Virgin, in robes of
blue and rose and gold, exactly as She had appeared to him upon the
hill-side.
A shrine was built to contain this miraculous portrait, which since that
day has been the goal of countless pilgrimages and has performed many
miracles.
Of this picture Padre Escolastico had much to say: he affirmed that it
was of marvellous beauty, rich with gold, and the colours as pure and
delicate as the tints of early morning. Many painters had visited the
shrine and marvelled that paint could be laid at all upon such poor and
coarse material. In the ordinary way of nature, the flimsy mantle would
have fallen to pieces long ago. The Padre modestly presented Bishop
Latour and Father Joseph with little medals he had brought from the
shrine; on one side a relief of the miraculous portrait, on the other an
inscription: _Non fecit taliter omni nationi_. (_She hath not dealt so
with any nation_.)
Father Vaillant was deeply stirred by the priest's recital, and after
the old man had gone he declared to the Bishop that he meant himself to
make a pilgrimage to this shrine at the earliest opportunity.
"What a priceless thing for the poor converts of a savage country!" he
exclaimed, wiping his glasses, which were clouded by his strong feeling.
"All these poor Catholics who have been so long without instruction have
at least the reassurance of that visitation. It is a household word with
them that their Blessed Mother revealed Herself in their own country, to
a poor convert. Doctrine is well enough for the wise, Jean; but the
miracle is something we can hold in our hands and love."
Father Vaillant began pacing restlessly up and down as he spoke, and the
Bishop watched him, musing. It was just this in his friend that was dear
to him. "Where there is great love there are always miracles," he said
at length. "One might almost say that an apparition is human vision
corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I
see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to
me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming
suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made
finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what
is there about us always."
BOOK TWO
_MISSIONARY JOURNEYS_
1
THE WHITE MULES
IN mid-March, Father Vaillant was on the road, returning from a
missionary journey to Albuquerque. He was to stop at the _rancho_ of a
rich Mexican, Manuel Lujon, to marry his men and maid servants who were
living in concubinage, and to baptize the children. There he would spend
the night. To-morrow or the day after he would go on to Santa Fé,
halting by the way at the Indian pueblo of Santo Domingo to hold
service. There was a fine old mission church at Santo Domingo, but the
Indians were of a haughty and suspicious disposition. He had said Mass
there on his way to Albuquerque, nearly a week ago. By dint of
canvassing from house to house, and offering medals and religious colour
prints to all who came to church, he had got together a considerable
congregation. It was a large and prosperous pueblo, set among clean
sand-hills, with its rich irrigated farm lands lying just below, in the
valley of the Rio Grande. His congregation was quiet, dignified,
attentive. They sat on the earth floor, wrapped in their best blankets,
repose in every line of their strong, stubborn backs. He harangued them
in such Spanish as he could command, and they listened with respect. But
bring their children to be baptized, they would not. The Spaniards had
treated them very badly long ago, and they had been meditating upon
their grievance for many generations. Father Vaillant had not baptized
one infant there, but he meant to stop to-morrow and try again. Then
back to his Bishop, provided he could get his horse up La Bajada Hill.
He had bought his horse from a Yankee trader and had been woefully
deceived. One week's journey of from twenty to thirty miles a day had
shown the beast up for a wind-broken wreck. Father Vaillant's mind was
full of material cares as he approached Manuel Lujon's place beyond
Bernalillo. The _rancho_ was like a little town, with all its stables,
corrals, and stake fences. The _casa grande_ was long and low, with
glass windows and bright blue doors, a _portale_ running its full
length, supported by blue posts. Under this _portale_ the adobe wall was
hung with bridles, saddles, great boots and spurs, guns and saddle
blankets, strings of red peppers, fox skins, and the skins of two great
rattlesnakes.
When Father Vaillant rode in through the gateway, children came running
from every direction, some with no clothing but a little shirt, and
women with no shawls over their black hair came running after the
children. They all disappeared when Manuel Lujon walked out of the great
house, hat in hand, smiling and hospitable. He was a man of thirty-five,
settled in figure and somewhat full under the chin. He greeted the
priest in the name of God and put out a hand to help him alight, but
Father Vaillant sprang quickly to the ground.
"God be with you, Manuel, and with your house. But where are those who
are to be married?"
"The men are all in the field, Padre. There is no hurry. A little wine,
a little bread, coffee, repose--and then the ceremonies."
"A little wine, very willingly, and bread, too. But not until afterward.
I meant to catch you all at dinner, but I am two hours late because my
horse is bad. Have someone bring in my saddle-bags, and I will put on my
vestments. Send out to the fields for your men, Señor Lujon. A man can
stop work to be married."
The swarthy host was dazed by this dispatch. "But one moment, Padre.
There are all the children to baptize; why not begin with them, if I
cannot persuade you to wash the dust from your sainted brow and repose a
little."
"Take me to a place where I can wash and change my clothes, and I will
be ready before you can get them here. No, I tell you, Lujon, the
marriages first, the baptisms afterward; that order is but Christian. I
will baptize the children to-morrow morning, and their parents will at
least have been married over night."
Father Joseph was conducted to his chamber, and the older boys were sent
running off across the fields to fetch the men. Lujon and his two
daughters began constructing an altar at one end of the _sala_. Two old
women came to scrub the floor, and another brought chairs and stools.
"My God, but he is ugly, the Padre!" whispered one of these to the
others. "He must be very holy. And did you see the great wart he has on
his chin? My grandmother could take that away for him if she were alive,
poor soul! Somebody ought to tell him about the holy mud at Chimayo.
That mud might dry it up. But there is nobody left now who can take
warts away."
"No, the times are not so good any more," the other agreed. "And I doubt
if all this marrying will make them any better. Of what use is it to
marry people after they have lived together and had children? and the
man is maybe thinking about another woman, like Pablo. I saw him coming
out of the brush with that oldest girl of Trinidad's, only Sunday
night."
The reappearance of the priest upon the scene cut short further scandal.
He knelt down before the improvised altar and began his private
devotions. The women tiptoed away. Señor Lujon himself went out toward
the servants' quarters to hurry the candidates for the marriage
sacrament. The women were giggling and snatching up their best shawls.
Some of the men had even washed their hands. The household crowded into
the _sala_, and Father Vaillant married couples with great dispatch.
"To-morrow morning, the baptisms," he announced. "And the mothers see to
it that the children are clean, and that there are sponsors for all."
After he had resumed his travelling-clothes, Father Joseph asked his
host at what hour he dined, remarking that he had been fasting since an
early breakfast.
"We eat when it is ready--a little after sunset, usually. I have had a
young lamb killed for your Reverence."
Father Joseph kindled with interest. "Ah, and how will it be cooked?"
Señor Lujon shrugged. "Cooked? Why, they put it in a pot with chili,
and some onions, I suppose."
"Ah, that is the point. I have had too much stewed mutton. Will you
permit me to go into the kitchen and cook my portion in my own way?"
Lujon waved his hand. "My house is yours, Padre. Into the kitchen I
never go--too many women. But there it is, and the woman in charge is
named Rosa."
When the Father entered the kitchen he found a crowd of women discussing
the marriages. They quickly dispersed, leaving old Rosa by her
fire-place, where hung a kettle from which issued the savour of cooking
mutton fat, all too familiar to Father Joseph. He found a half sheep
hanging outside the door, covered with a bloody sack, and asked Rosa to
heat the oven for him, announcing that he meant to roast the hind leg.
"But Padre, I baked before the marriages. The oven is almost cold. It
will take an hour to heat it, and it is only two hours till supper."
"Very well. I can cook my roast in an hour."
"Cook a roast in an hour!" cried the old woman. "Mother of God, Padre,
the blood will not be dried in it!"
"Not if I can help it!" said Father Joseph fiercely. "Now hurry with the
fire, my good woman."
When the Padre carved his roast at the supper-table, the serving-girls
stood behind his chair and looked with horror at the delicate stream of
pink juice that followed the knife. Manuel Lujon took a slice for
politeness, but he did not eat it. Father Vaillant had his _gigot_ to
himself.
All the men and boys sat down at the long table with the host, the women
and children would eat later. Father Joseph and Lujon, at one end, had a
bottle of white Bordeaux between them. It had been brought from Mexico
City on mule-back, Lujon said. They were discussing the road back to
Santa Fé, and when the missionary remarked that he would stop at Santo
Domingo, the host asked him why he did not get a horse there. "I am
afraid you will hardly get back to Santa Fé on your own. The pueblo is
famous for breeding good horses. You might make a trade."
"No," said Father Vaillant. "Those Indians are of a sullen disposition.
If I were to have dealings with them, they would suspect my motives. If
we are to save their souls, we must make it clear that we want no profit
for ourselves, as I told Father Gallegos in Albuquerque."