Part 14 (2/2)
But I didn't. Pere Fidelis was up before daybreak. It was his hand that clashed the joyful Angelus at sunrise that woke me from my happy dream; it was his hand that prepared the frugal but appetizing meal; he made the coffee, such rich, black, aromatic coffee as Frenchmen alone have the faculty of producing. He had an eye to the welfare of the animals also, and seemed to be commander-in-chief of affairs secular as well as ecclesiastical; yet he was so young!
There was a day of brief incursions mountain-ward, with the happiest results. There were welcomes showered upon me for his sake; he was ever ministering to my temporal wants, and puzzling me with dissertations in a.s.sorted languages.
By happy fortune a Sunday followed when the Chapel of the Palms was thronged with dusky wors.h.i.+ppers; not a white face present but the father's and mine own, yet a common trust in the blessedness of the life to come struck the key-note of universal harmony, and we sang the _Magnificat_ with one voice. There was something that fretted me in all this admirable experience: Pere Fidelis could touch neither bread nor water until after the last ma.s.s. Hour by hour he grew paler and fainter, spite of the heroic fort.i.tude that sustained his famis.h.i.+ng body.
”_Mon pere_,” said I, ”you must eat, or go to heaven betimes.” He would not. ”You must end with an earlier ma.s.s,” I persisted. It was impossible: many paris.h.i.+oners came from miles away; some of these started at daybreak, as it was, and they would be unable to arrive in season for an earlier ma.s.s. Excellent martyr! thought I, to offer thy body a living sacrifice for the edification of these savage Christians!
At last he ate, but not until appet.i.te itself had perished. Then troops of children gathered about him clamouring to kiss the hand of the priestly youth; old men and women pa.s.sed him with heads uncovered, amazed at the devotion of one they could not hope to emulate.
Whenever I referred to his life, he at once led me to admire his fellow-apostle, who was continually in his thoughts. Pere Amabilis was miles away, repairing a chapel that had suffered somewhat in a late gale; Pere Amabilis would be so glad to see me; I must not fail to visit him; and for fear of some mischance, Pere Fidelis would himself conduct me to him.
The way was hard,--deep chasms to penetrate, swift streams to be forded, narrow and slippery trails to be threaded through forest, swamp, and wilderness. These obstacles separated the devoted friends, but not for long seasons. Pere Fidelis would go to him whom he had not laid eyes on for a fortnight at least.
The boy Kahele was glad of companions.h.i.+p; one of the small fishers, an acolyte of the chapel, would accompany us, and together they could lag behind, eating ohias and dabbling in every stream.
A long day's journey followed. We wended our way through jungles of lauhala, with slim roots in the air and long branches trailing about them like vines; they were like great cages of roots and branches in a woven snarl. We saw a rocky point jutting far into the sea. ”Pere Amabilis dwells just beyond that cape,” said my companion, fondly; and it seemed not very far distant; but our pace was slow and wearisome, and the hours were sure to distance us. We fathomed dark ravines whose farther walls were but a stone's throw from us, but in whose profound depths a swift torrent rushed madly to the sea, threatening to carry us to our destruction,--green, precipitous troughs, where the tide of mountain-rain was lashed into fury, and with its death-song drowned our voices and filled our animals with terror.
Now and then we paused to breathe, man and beast panting with fatigue; sometimes the rain drove us into the thick wood for shelter; sometimes a brief deluge, the offspring of a rent cloud at the head of the ravine, stayed our progress for half an hour, until its volume was somewhat spent and the stream was again fordable. Here we talked of the daily miracles in nature. Again and again the young fathers are called forth into the wilderness to attend on the sick and dying. Little chapels are hidden away among the mountains and through the valleys; all these must be visited in turn. Their life is an actual pilgrimage from chapel to chapel, which nothing but physical inability may interrupt.
At one spot I saw a tree under which Pere Fidelis once pa.s.sed a tempestuous night. On either side yawned a ravine swept by an impa.s.sable flood. There was no house within reach. On the soaked earth, with a pitiless gale sweeping over the land, from sunset to sunrise he lay without the consolation of one companion. Food was frequently scarce: a few limpets, about as palatable as parboiled shoe-leather, a paste of roast yams and water, a lime perhaps, and nothing besides but lumpy salt from the sea-sh.o.r.e.
While we were riding a herald met us bearing a letter for _mon pere_. It was a greeting from Pere Amabilis, who announced the chapel as rapidly nearing its complete restoration. Pere Fidelis fairly wept for joy at this intelligence, and burst into a panegyric upon the unrivalled ingenuity of his spiritual a.s.sociate. We were sure to surprise him at work, and this trifling episode seemed to be an event of some importance in the isolated life they led.
At sunset we pa.s.sed into the open vale of Wailuanui, and saw the chapel looking fresh and tidy on the slope of the hill toward the sea. Two waterfalls that fell against the sunset flashed like falling flame, and a soft haze tinged the slumberous solitudes of wood and pasture with the dream-like loveliness of a picture. There seemed to be but one sound audible,--the quick, sharp blows of a hammer. Pere Fidelis listened with eyes sparkling, and then rode rapidly onward.
Behold! from the chapel wall, high up on a scaffolding of boughs, his robes gathered about him, his head uncovered and hammer in hand, Pere Amabilis leaned forth to welcome us. The hammer fell to the earth. Pere Amabilis loosened his skirts and clasped his hands in unaffected rapture. We were three satisfied souls, asking for nothing beyond the hem of that lonely valley in the Pacific.
Of course there was the smallest possible house that could be lived in, for our sole accommodation, because but one priest needed to visit the district at a time, and a very young priest at that. A tiny bed in one corner of the room was thought sufficient, together with two plates, two cups, and a single spoon. Luxuries were unknown and unregretted.
”Well, father, what have you at this hotel?” said Pere Fidelis, as we came to the door of the cubby-house.
”Water,” replied our host with a grave tone that had an undercurrent of truth in it.
But we were better provided for. Within an hour's time a reception took place: the native paris.h.i.+oners came forth to welcome Pere Fidelis and the stranger, each bringing some voluntary tribute,--a fish, a fowl lean enough to quiet the conscience of Pere Fidelis, an egg or two, or a bunch of taro.
Long talks followed; the news of the last month was discussed with much enthusiasm, and some few who had no opportunity of joining in the debate gave expression to their sentiments through such speaking eyes as savages usually are possessed of.
The welcome supper-hour approached. Willing hands dressed a fowl; swift feet plied between the spring and the kettle swung over the open camp-fire, children danced for very joy before the door of the chapel, under the statue of the Virgin, whose head was adorned with a garland of living flowers. The shadows deepened; stars seemed to cl.u.s.ter over the valley and glow with unusual fervour; the crickets sang mightily,--they are always singing mightily over yonder; supper came to the bare table with its meagre array of dishes; and, since I was forced to have a whole plate and a bowl, as well as the solitary spoon, for my whole use, the two young priests ate together from the same dish and drank from the same cup, and were as grateful and happy as the birds of the air under similar circ.u.mstances.
A merry meal, that! For us no weak tea, that satirical consoler, nor tea whose strength is bitterness, an abomination to the faithful, but _mon pere's_ own coffee, the very aroma of which was invigorating; then our friendly pipes out under the starlight, where we sat chatting amicably, with our three heads turbaned in an aromatic Virginian cloud.
I learned something of the life of these two friends during that social evening. Born in the same city in the north of France, reared in the same schools, graduated at the same university, each fond of life and acquainted with its follies, each in turn stricken with an illness that threatened death, together they came out of the dark valley with their future consecrated to the work that now absorbs them, the friends.h.i.+p of their childhood increasing with their years and sustaining them in a remote land, where their vow of poverty seems almost like sarcasm, since circ.u.mstances deprives them of all luxuries.
”Do you never long for home? do you never regret your vow?” I asked.
”Never!” they answered; and I believed them. ”These old people are as parents to us; these younger ones are as brothers and sisters; these children we love as dearly as though they were our own. What more can we ask?”
<script>