married at twenty, and lost his wife and child when he was twenty-three.
After his marriage he had learned to read from the parish priest, and
when he became a widower he decided to study for the priesthood. Taking
his clothes and the little money he got from the sale of his household
goods, he started on horseback for Durango, in Old Mexico. There he
entered the Seminary and began a life of laborious study.
The Bishop could imagine what it meant for a young man who had not
learned to read until long after adolescence, to undergo a severe
academic training. He found Martinez deeply versed, not only in the
Church Fathers, but in the Latin and Spanish classics. After six years
at the Seminary, Martinez had returned to his native Abiquiu as priest
of the parish church there. He was passionately attached to that old
village under the pyramidal mountain. All the while he had been in Taos,
half a lifetime now, he made periodic pilgrimages on horseback back to
Abiquiu, as if the flavour of his own yellow earth were medicine to his
soul. Naturally he hated the Americans. The American occupation meant
the end of men like himself. He was a man of the old order, a son of
Abiquiu, and his day was over.
On his departure from Taos, the Bishop went out of his way to make a
call at Kit Carson's ranch house. Carson, he knew, was away buying
sheep, but Father Latour wished to see the Señora Carson to thank her
again for her kindness to poor Magdalena, and to tell her of the woman's
happy and devoted life with the Sisters in their school at Santa Fé.
The Señora received him with that quiet but unabashed hospitality which
is a common grace in Mexican households. She was a tall woman, slender,
with drooping shoulders and lustrous black eyes and hair. Though she
could not read, both her face and conversation were intelligent. To the
Bishop's thinking, she was handsome; her countenance showed that
discipline of life which he admired. She had a cheerful disposition,
too, and a pleasant sense of humour. It was possible to talk
confidentially to her. She said she hoped he had been comfortable in
Padre Martinez's house, with an inflection which told that she much
doubted it, and she laughed a little when he confessed that he had been
annoyed by the presence of Trinidad Lucero.
"Some people say he is Father Lucero's son," she said with a shrug. "But
I do not think so. More likely one of Padre Martinez's. Did you hear
what happened to him at Abiquiu last year, in Passion Week? He tried to
be like the Saviour, and had himself crucified. Oh, not with nails! He
was tied upon a cross with ropes, to hang there all night; they do that
sometimes at Abiquiu, it is a very old-fashioned place. But he is so
heavy that after he had hung there a few hours, the cross fell over with
him, and he was very much humiliated. Then he had himself tied to a post
and said he would bear as many stripes as our Saviour--six thousand, as
was revealed to St. Bridget. But before they had given him a hundred, he
fainted. They scourged him with cactus whips, and his back was so
poisoned that he was sick up there for a long while. This year they sent
word that they did not want him at Abiquiu, so he had to keep Holy Week
here, and everybody laughed at him."
Father Latour asked the Señora to tell him frankly whether she thought
he could put a stop to the extravagances of the Penitential Brotherhood.
She smiled and shook her head. "I often say to my husband, I hope you
will not try to do that. It would only set the people against you. The
old people have need of their old customs; and the young ones will go
with the times."
As the Bishop was taking his leave, she put into his saddle-bags a
beautiful piece of lace-work for Magdalena. "She will not be likely to
use it for herself, but she will be glad to have it to give to the
Sisters. That brutal man left her nothing. After he was hung, there was
nothing to sell but his gun and one burro. That was why he was going to
take the risk of killing two Padres for their mules--and for spite
against religion, maybe! Magdalena said he had often threatened to kill
the priest at Mora."
At Santa Fé the Bishop found Father Vaillant awaiting him. They had not
seen each other since Easter, and there were many things to be
discussed. The vigour and zeal of Bishop Latour's administration had
already been recognized at Rome, and he had lately received a letter
from Cardinal Fransoni, Prefect of the Propaganda, announcing that the
vicarate of Santa Fé had been formally raised to a diocese. By the same
long-delayed post came an invitation from the Cardinal, urgently
requesting Father Latour's presence at important conferences at the
Vatican during the following year. Though all these matters must be
taken up in their turn between the Bishop and his Vicar-General, Father
Joseph had undoubtedly come up from Albuquerque at this particular time
because of a lively curiosity to hear how the Bishop had been received
in Taos.
Seated in the study in their old cassocks, with the candles lighted on
the table between them, they spent a long evening.
"For the present," Father Latour remarked, "I shall do nothing to change
the curious situation at Taos. It is not expedient to interfere. The
church is strong, the people are devout. No matter what the conduct of
the priest has been, he has built up a strong organization, and his
people are devotedly loyal to him."
"But can he be disciplined, do you think?"
"Oh, there is no question of discipline! He has been a little potentate
too long. His people would assuredly support him against a French
Bishop. For the present I shall be blind to what I do not like there."
"But Jean," Father Joseph broke out in agitation, "the man's life is an
open scandal, one hears of it everywhere. Only a few weeks ago I was
told a pitiful story of a Mexican girl carried off in one of the Indian
raids on the Costella valley. She was a child of eight when she was
carried away, and was fifteen when she was found and ransomed. During
all that time the pious girl had preserved her virginity by a succession
of miracles. She had a medal from the shrine of Our Lady of Guadelupe
tied round her neck, and she said such prayers as she had been taught.
Her chastity was threatened many times, but always some unexpected event
averted the catastrophe. After she was found and sent back to some
relatives living in Arroyo Hondo, she was so devout that she wished to
become a religious. She was debauched by this Martinez, and he married
her to one of his peons. She is now living on one of his farms."
"Yes, Christobal told me that story," said the Bishop with a shrug. "But
Padre Martinez is getting too old to play the part of Don Juan much
longer. I do not wish to lose the parish of Taos in order to punish its
priest, my friend. I have no priest strong enough to put in his place.
You are the only man who could meet the situation there, and you are at
Albuquerque. A year from now I shall be in Rome, and there I hope to get
a Spanish missionary who will take over the parish of Taos. Only a
Spaniard would be welcomed there, I think."
"You are doubtless right," said Father Joseph. "I am often too hasty in
my judgments. I may do very badly for you while you are in Europe. For I
suppose I am to leave my dear Albuquerque, and come to Santa Fé while
you are gone?"
"Assuredly. They will love you all the more for lacking you awhile. I
hope to bring some more hardy Auvergnats back with me, young men from
our own Seminary, and I am afraid I must put one of them in Albuquerque.
You have been there long enough. You have done all that is necessary. I
need you here, Father Joseph. As it is now, one of us must ride seventy
miles whenever we wish to converse about anything."
Father Vaillant sighed. "Ah, I supposed it would come! You will snatch
me from Albuquerque as you did from Sandusky. When I went there
everybody was my enemy, now everybody is my friend; therefore it is time
to go." Father Vaillant took off his glasses, folded them, and put them
in their case, which act always announced his determination to retire.
"So a year from now you will be in Rome. Well, I had rather be among my
people in Albuquerque, that I can say honestly. But Clermont,--there I
envy you. I should like to see my own mountains again. At least you will
see all my family and bring me word of them, and you can bring me the
vestments that my dear sister Philomène and her nuns have been making
for me these three years. I shall be very glad to have them." He rose,
and took up one of the candles. "And when you leave Clermont, Jean, put
a few chestnuts in your pocket for me!"
2
THE MISER
IN February Bishop Latour once more set out on horseback over the Santa
Fé trail, this time with Rome as his objective. He was absent for
nearly a year, and when he returned he brought with him four young
priests from his own Seminary of Montferrand, and a Spanish priest,
Father Taladrid, whom he had found in Rome, and who was at once sent to
Taos. At the Bishop's suggestion, Padre Martinez formally resigned his
parish, with the understanding that he was still to celebrate Mass upon
solemn occasions. Not only did he avail himself of this privilege, but
he continued to perform all marriages and burial services and to dictate
the lives of the parishioners. Very soon he and Father Taladrid were at
open war.
When the Bishop, unable to compose their differences, supported the new
priest, Father Martinez and his friend Father Lucero, of Arroyo Hondo,
mutinied; flatly refused to submit, and organized a church of their own.
This, they declared, was the old Holy Catholic Church of Mexico, while
the Bishop's church was an American institution. In both towns the
greater part of the population went over to the schismatic church,
though some pious Mexicans, in great perplexity, attended Mass at both.
Father Martinez printed a long and eloquent Proclamation (which very few
of his parishioners could read) giving an historical justification for
his schism, and denying the obligation of celibacy for the priesthood.
As both he and Father Lucero were well on in years, this particular
clause could be of little benefit to anyone in their new organization
except Trinidad. After the two old priests went off into schism, one of
their first solemn acts was to elevate Father Lucero's nephew to the
priesthood, and he acted as curate to them both, swinging back and forth
between Taos and Arroyo Hondo.
The schismatic church at least accomplished the rejuvenation of the two
rebellious priests at its head, and far and wide revived men's interest
in them,--though they had always furnished their people with plenty to
talk about. Ever since they were young men with adjoining parishes, they
had been friends, cronies, rivals, sometimes bitter enemies. But their
quarrels could never keep them apart for long.
Old Marino Lucero had not one trait in common with Martinez, except the
love of authority. He had been a miser from his youth, and lived down in
the sunken world of Arroyo Hondo in the barest poverty, though he was
supposed to be very rich. He used to boast that his house was as poor as
a burro's stable. His bed, his crucifix, and his bean-pot were his
furniture. He kept no live-stock but one poor mule, on which he rode
over to Taos to quarrel with his friend Martinez, or to get a solid
dinner when he was hungry. In his _casa_ every day was Friday--unless
one of his neighbour women cooked a chicken and brought it in to him out
of pure compassion. For his people liked him. He was grasping, but not
oppressive, and he wrung more pesos out of Arroyo Seco and Questa than
out of his own arroyo. Thrift is such a rare quality among Mexicans that
they find it very amusing; his people loved to tell how he never bought
anything, but picked up old brooms after housewives had thrown them
away, and that he wore Padre Martinez's garments after the Padre would
have them no longer, though they were so much too big for him. One of
the priests' fiercest quarrels had come about because Martinez gave some
of his old clothes to a monk from Mexico who was studying at his house,
and who had not wherewithal to cover himself as winter came on.
The two priests had always talked shamelessly about each other. All
Martinez's best stories were about Lucero, and all Lucero's were about
Martinez.
"You see how it is," Padre Lucero would say to the young men at a
wedding party, "my way is better than old José Martinez's. His nose and
chin are getting to be close neighbours now, and a petticoat is not much
good to him any more. But I can still rise upright at the sight of a
dollar. With a new piece of money in my hand I am happier than ever; and
what can he do with a pretty girl but regret?"
Avarice, he assured them, was the one passion that grew stronger and
sweeter in old age. He had the lust for money as Martinez had for women,
and they had never been rivals in the pursuit of their pleasures. After
Trinidad was ordained and went to stay with his uncle, Father Lucero
complained that he had formed gross habits living with Martinez, and was
eating him out of house and home. Father Martinez told with delight how
Trinidad sponged upon the parish at Arroyo Hondo, and went about poking
his nose into one bean-pot after another.
When the Bishop could no longer remain deaf to the rebellion, he sent
Father Vaillant over to Taos to publish the warning for three weeks and
exhort the two priests to renounce their heresy. On the fourth Sunday
Father Joseph, who complained that he was always sent "_à fouetter les
chats_," solemnly read the letter in which the Bishop stripped Father
Martinez of the rights and privileges of the priesthood. On the
afternoon of the same day, he rode over to Arroyo Hondo, eighteen miles
away, and read a similar letter of excommunication against Father
Lucero.
Father Martinez continued at the head of his schismatic church until,
after a short illness, he died and was buried in schism, by Father
Lucero. Soon after this, Father Lucero himself fell into a decline. But
even after he was ailing he performed a feat which became one of the
legends of the country-side,--killed a robber in a midnight scuffle.
A wandering teamster who had been discharged from a wagon train for
theft, was picking up a living over in Taos and there heard the stories
about Father Lucero's hidden riches. He came to Arroyo Hondo to rob the
old man. Father Lucero was a light sleeper, and hearing stealthy sounds
in the middle of the night, he reached for the carving-knife he kept
hidden under his mattress and sprang upon the intruder. They began
fighting in the dark, and though the thief was a young man and armed,
the old priest stabbed him to death and then, covered with blood, ran
out to arouse the town. The neighbours found the Padre's chamber like a
slaughter-house, his victim hang dead beside the hole he had dug. They
were amazed at what the old man had been able to do.
But from the shock of that night Father Lucero never recovered. He
wasted away so rapidly that his people had the horse doctor come from
Taos to look at him. This veterinary was a Yankee who had been
successful in treating men as well as horses, but he said he could do
nothing for Father Lucero; he believed he had an internal tumour or a
cancer.
Padre Lucero died repentant, and Father Vaillant, who had pronounced his
excommunication, was the one to reconcile him to the Church. The Vicar
was in Taos on business for the Bishop, staying with Kit Carson and the
Señora. They were all sitting at supper one evening during a heavy
rain-storm, when a horseman rode up to the _portale_. Carson went out to
receive him. The visitor he brought in with him was Trinidad Lucero, who
took off his rubber coat and stood in a full-skirted cassock of Arroyo
Hondo make, a crucifix about his neck, seeming to fill the room with his
size and importance. After bowing ceremoniously to the Señora, he
addressed himself to Father Vaillant in his best English, speaking
slowly in his thick felty voice.
"I am the only nephew of Padre Lucero. My uncle is verra seek and soon
to die. She has vomit the blood." He dropped his eyes.
"Speak to me in your own language, man!" cried Father Joseph. "I can at
least do more with Spanish than you can with English. Now tell me what
you have to say of your uncle's condition."
Trinidad gave some account of his uncle's illness, repeating solemnly
the phrase, "She has vomit the blood," which he seemed to find
impressive. The sick man wished to see Father Vaillant, and begged that
he would come to him and give him the Sacrament.
Carson urged the Vicar to wait until morning, as the road down into "the
Hondo" would be badly washed by rain and dangerous to go over in the
dark. But Father Vaillant said if the road were bad he could go down on
foot. Excusing himself to the Señora Carson, he went to his room to put
on his riding-clothes and get his saddle-bags. Trinidad, upon
invitation, sat down at the empty place and made the most of his
opportunity. The host saddled Father Vaillant's mule, and the Vicar rode
away, with Trinidad for guide.
Not that he needed a guide to Arroyo Hondo, it was a place especially
dear to him, and he was always glad to find a pretext for going there.
How often he had ridden over there on fine days in summer, or in early
spring, before the green was out, when the whole country was pink and
blue and yellow, like a coloured map.
One approached over a sage-brush plain that appeared to run level and
unbroken to the base of the distant mountains; then without warning, one
suddenly found oneself upon the brink of a precipice, of a chasm in the
earth over two hundred feet deep, the sides sheer cliffs, but cliffs of
earth, not rock. Drawing rein at the edge, one looked down into a sunken
world of green fields and gardens, with a pink adobe town, at the bottom
of this great ditch. The men and mules walking about down there, or
plowing the fields, looked like the figures of a child's Noah's ark.
Down the middle of the arroyo, through the sunken fields and pastures,
flowed a rushing stream which came from the high mountains. Its original
source was so high, indeed, that by merely laying an open wooden trough
up the opposite side of the arroyo, the Mexicans conveyed the water to
the plateau at the top. This sluice was laid in sections that zigzagged
up the face of the cliff. Father Vaillant always stopped to watch the
water rushing up the side of the precipice like a thing alive; an
ever-ascending ladder of clear water, gurgling and clouding into silver
as it climbed. Only once before, he used to tell the natives, in Italy,
had he seen water run up hill like that.
The water thus diverted was but a tiny thread of the full creek; the
main stream ran down the arroyo over a white rock bottom, with green
willows and deep hay grass and brilliant wild flowers on its banks.
Evening primroses, the fireweed, and butterfly weed grew to a tropical
size and brilliance there among the sedges.
But this was the first time Father Vaillant had ever gone down into the
Hondo after dark, and at the edge of the cliff he decided not to put
Contento to so cruel a test. "He can do it," he said to Trinidad, "but I
will not make him." He dismounted and went on foot down the steep
winding trail.
They reached Father Lucero's house before midnight. Half the population
of the town seemed to be in attendance, and the place was lit up as if
for a festival. The sick man's chamber was full of Mexican women,
sitting about on the floor, wrapped in their black shawls, saying their
prayers with lighted candles before them. One could scarcely step for
the candles.
Father Vaillant beckoned to a woman he knew well, Conçeption Gonzales,
and asked her what was the meaning of this. She whispered that the dying
Padre would have it so. His sight was growing dim, and he kept calling
for more lights. All his life, Conçeption sighed, he had been so saving
of candles, and had mostly done with a pine splinter in the evenings.
In the corner, on the bed, Father Lucero was groaning and tossing, one
man rubbing his feet, and another wringing cloths out of hot water and
putting them on his stomach to dull the pain. Señora Gonzales whispered
that the sick man had been gnawing the sheets for pain; she had brought
over her best ones, and they were chewed to lacework across the top.
Father Vaillant approached the bed-side, "Get away from the bed a
little, my good women. Arrange yourselves along the wall, your candles
blind me."
But as they began rising and lifting their candlesticks from the floor,
the sick man called, "No, no, do not take away the lights! Some thief
will come, and I will have nothing left."
The women shrugged, looked reproachfully at Father Vaillant, and sat
down again.
Padre Lucero was wasted to the bones. His cheeks were sunken, his hooked
nose was clay-coloured and waxy, his eyes were wild with fever. They
burned up at Father Joseph,--great, black, glittering, distrustful eyes.
On this night of his departure the old man looked more Spaniard than
Mexican. He clutched Father Joseph's hand with a grip surprisingly
strong, and gave the man who was rubbing his feet a vigorous kick in the
chest.
"Have done with my feet there, and take away these wet rags. Now that
the Vicar has come, I have something to say, and I want you all to
hear." Father Lucero's voice had always been thin and high in pitch, his
parishioners used to say it was like a horse talking. "Señor Vicario,
you remember Padre Martinez? You ought to, for you served him as badly
as you did me. Now listen:"
Father Lucero related that Martinez, before his death, had entrusted to
him a certain sum of money to be spent in masses for the repose of his
soul, these to be offered at his native church in Abiquiu. Lucero had
not used the money as he promised, but had buried it under the dirt
floor of this room, just below the large crucifix that hung on the wall
yonder.
At this point Father Vaillant again signalled to the women to withdraw,
but as they took up their candles, Father Lucero sat up in his
night-shirt and cried, "Stay as you are! Are you going to run away and
leave me with a stranger? I trust him no more than I do you! Oh, why did
God not make some way for a man to protect his own after death? Alive, I
can do it with my knife, old as I am. But after?"----
The Señora Gonzales soothed Father Lucero, persuaded him to lie back
upon his pillows and tell them what he wanted them to do. He explained
that this money which he had taken in trust from Martinez was to be sent
to Abiquiu and used as the Padre had wished. Under the crucifix, and
under the floor beneath the bed on which he was lying, they would find
his own savings. One third of his hoard was for Trinidad. The rest was
to be spent in masses for his soul, and they were to be celebrated in
the old church of San Miguel in Santa Fé.
Father Vaillant assured him that all his wishes should be scrupulously
carried out, and now it was time for him to dismiss the cares of this
world and prepare his mind to receive the Sacrament.
"All in good time. But a man does not let go of this world so easily.
Where is Conçeption Gonzales? Come here, my daughter. See to it that
the money is taken up from under the floor while I am still in this
chamber, before my body is cold, that it is counted in the presence of
all these women, and the sum set down in writing." At this point, the
old man started, as with a new hope. "And Christobal, he is the man!
Christobal Carson must be here to count it and set it down. He is a just
man. Trinidad, you fool, why did you not bring Christobal?"
Father Vaillant was scandalized. "Unless you compose yourself, Father
Lucero, and fix your thoughts upon Heaven, I shall refuse to administer
the Sacrament. In your present state of mind, it would be a sacrilege."