Part 1 (1/2)
The Penance of Magdalena & Other Tales of the California Missions.
by J. Smeaton Chase.
Foreward
Among the California Missions the southern group form a natural unit, just as does, geographically, Southern California itself--the region covered by the familiar California formula, ”South of the Tehachapi.” It is thought that this little set of tales, extracted from the larger work, The California Padres and Their Missions, in which Mr. Charles F.
Saunders and the writer collaborated, may be welcomed by those many persons whose interest in Mission affairs is more or less limited to the five here included, which are, probably, the most notable, historically and architecturally, of the whole chain of these venerable monuments of Franciscan zeal.
J. S. C.
San Juan Capistrano
The Penance of Magdalena
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 las.h.i.+ngs.
In all these labors Te?filo had taken a princ.i.p.al 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 pa.s.s 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d, 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 fas.h.i.+on, to his forehead in token of grat.i.tude.
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 quant.i.ty, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 grat.i.tude.
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 G.o.d, 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!”