Chapter 40 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
Early morning prayer in the “iglesia” is a fashionable custom among the señoras of Mexico—particularly among those who dwell in cities and towns. Close upon the heels of daybreak you may see them issuing from the great doors of their houses, and hurrying through the streets towards the chapel, where the bell has already begun its deafening “ding-dong.” They are muffled beyond the possibility of recognition—the richer in their silken shawls and mantas, the poorer in their slate-coloured rebosos; under the folds of which each carries a little bound volume—the “misa.”
Let us follow them into the sacred temple, and see what passes there.
If we arrive late, and take station near the door we shall be presented with the spectacle of several hundred backs in a kneeling position—that is, the individuals to whom the backs belong will be found kneeling.
These backs are by no means alike—no more than faces are. They are of all shapes, and sizes, and colours, and classes in the social scale. You will see the backs of ladies in shawls—some of whom have permitted that elegant garment to fall to the shoulders, while others retain it over the crowns of their heads, thus creating two very distinct styles of back. You will see the backs of pretty poblanas, with the end of their rebosos hanging gracefully over them; and the back of the poblana’s mother with the reboso ill arranged, and not over clean. You will see the back of the merchant scarcely covered with a short cloth jacket, and the back of the “aguador” cased in well-worn leather; the back of the “guapo” muffled in a cloak of fine broad-cloth, and that of the “lepero” shrouded in a ragged scrape; and then you will see broad backs and slender ones, straight backs and crooked ones; and you run a good chance of beholding a hunch or two—especially if the church be in a large town. But wheresoever you enter a Mexican iglesia during prayer-time, I promise you the view of an extensive assortment of backs. Not classified, however. Quite the contrary. The back of the shawled lady may be inclusive between two greasy rebosos, and the striped or speckled back of the lepero may rise up alongside the shining broad-cloth of the dandy! I do not answer for any classification of the backs; I only guarantee their extensive number and variety. The only face that is likely to confront you at this moment will be the shaven phiz of a fat priest, in full sacerdotal robes of linen, that were once, no doubt, clean and white, but that look now as if they had been sent to the buck-basket, and by some mistake brought back before reaching the laundry. This individual, with a look as unlike heaven as the wickedest of his flock, will be seen stirring about on his little stage; now carrying a wand—now a brazen pot of smoking “incense,” and anon some waxen doll—the image of a saint; while in the midst of his manipulations you may hear him “murmuring” a gibberish of ill-pronounced Latin. If you have witnessed the performance of M. Robin, or the “Great Wizard,” you cannot fail to be reminded of them at this moment.
The tinkling of a little bell, which you will presently hear, has a magical effect upon the backs. For a short while you may have observed them in an odd attitude—not erect as backs ought to be, but slouching and one-sided. During this interval, too, you may catch a glance of a face—merely the profile—and if it be pretty, you will forget the back; but then the party is no longer a back in the proper sense. You won’t be struck with the devotion of the profile, if you are with its prettiness. You may observe it wink or look cunningly, and, if your observation be good, you may note another profile, of coarser mould, corresponding to that wink or cunning glance. This goes on while the backs are in their “slouch” or attitude of repose. How that attitude is produced will be to you a mystery, an anatomical puzzle; but it may be explained. It is simple enough to those who know it. It is brought about by the back changing its base from the marrow-bones to the hips; and this is done so adroitly, that, under cover of shawls, mantas, rebosos, and skirts, it is no wonder you are puzzled by it.
The little bell, however, brings the backs all right again. It is to these devotees what the “Attention!” is to the rank and file of an army; and the moment the first tinkle is heard, backs up is the movement, and all become suddenly elevated several inches above their former standard. Thus they remain, stiff and erect, while the priest mumbles a fresh “Ave Maria,” or “Pater noster,” and goes through a fresh exhibition of pantomime. Then the backs are suddenly shortened again, the profiles appear as before—nods, and winks, and cunning glances, are exchanged—and that till the little bell sounds a second time. And then there will be a third course of this performance, and a fourth, and so on, till the worship (!) is ended.
This ridiculous genuflexion and mummery you may see repeated every morning in a Mexican “iglesia,” long before the hour of breakfast. Both men and women engage in it, but by far the greater number of the devotees are of the gentler sex, and many of them the fashionable señoras of the place.
One is inclined to inquire into the motives that draw so many people out of their beds, to shiver through the streets and in the cold church at such an early hour. Is it religion? Is it superstition? Is it penance? Is it devotion? No doubt many of these silly creatures really believe that the act is pleasing to God; that these genuflexions and orisons, mechanically repeated, will give them grace in His eyes. But it is very certain that many of the most constant attendants on these morning prayers are actuated by very different feelings. In a land of jealous men you will find the women peculiarly intelligent and cunning, and the matutinal hour is to them the “golden opportunity.” He is a very jealous guardian, indeed, whose vigil tempts him from his couch at so chill an hour!
Await the end of the performance by the door of the “iglesia.” There stands a large vase filled with the consecrated water. Each, in passing out, takes a dip and a sprinkle. In this basin you will see the small jewelled hand immerse its finger-tips, and the next moment adroitly deliver a carte d’amour to some cloaked cavallero. Perhaps you may see the wealthy señora, in the safe disguise of the serapé, leave the church in a direction opposite to that by which she came. If you are curious enough to follow—which would be extremely ill-bred—you may witness under the trees of the “alameda,” or some unfrequented quarter, the forbidden “entrevista.”
The morning, in a Mexican city, has its adventures as well as the night.
The bell of the church of San Ildefonso had just commenced to ring for “oracion,” when a female form was seen issuing from the gateway of one of the largest mansions of the town, and taking the direction of the church. It was yet scarce daybreak, and the person thus observed was closely muffled; but her tall upright form, the dignity and grace of her carriage, and the proud elastic step told that she was a grand señora. As she reached the portal of the church she stopped for some moments and looked around. Her face was not visible, as it was “tapada” under the folds of a closely-drawn manta; but her attitude, with her head occasionally moving around, showed that she was scanning the figures that, at the summons of the bell, approached like shadows through the grey light. She was evidently expecting some one; and from the eager scrutiny with which she regarded each new form that entered the plaza, it was some one whose presence was much desired.
The last of the devotees had arrived and entered the church. It would be idle to remain longer; and, turning on her heel with an air that betokened disappointment, the lady glided across the portal, and disappeared through the door.
In another moment she was kneeling in front of the altar, repeating her orisons and telling over the beads of her rosary.
She was not the last to enter the church; still another devotee came later. About the time that she was leaving the portal a carreta drove into the plaza, and halted in a remote corner. A young girl leaped out of the carreta, tripped nimbly across the square, in the direction of the church, and passed within the portal. The dress of this new-comer—a flaming red “nagua,” broidered chemisette, and reboso—showed that she belonged to the poorer class of citizens. She was a poblana.
She entered the church, but before kneeling she threw an inquiring glance along the array of backs. Her eye became fixed upon one that was covered with a manta. It was that of the lady of whom we have spoken. This seemed to satisfy the poblana, who, gliding over the floor, knelt down in such a position that her elbow almost rested against that of the lady.
So silently had this movement been executed that the lady did not perceive her new neighbour until a slight “nudge” upon the elbow caused her to start and look round. A gleam of satisfaction lit up her features, though her lips continued to repeat the prayer, as if nothing had happened.
After a while came the cue for adopting the pose of rest, and then the two kneeling figures—señorita and poblana—dropped towards each other, so that their arms touched. A moment later and two hands became uncovered—one a little brown-skinned paw from under the reboso—the other, a delicate arrangement of white and jewelled fingers, from the manta.
They came in contact as if by a mutual understanding, and, though they were en rapport but a half-second, a close observer might have noticed a small roll of paper passed from one to the other—from the brown fingers to the white ones! It would have required a close observer to have noticed this manoeuvre, for so adroitly was it executed that none of those kneeling around, either in front or rear, saw anything amiss.
The two hands again disappeared under their respective covers; the little bell tinkled, and both señora and poblana once more shot into an upright position, and, with most devout looks, repeated the prayers of the misa.
When the “oracion” was over, and while sprinkling themselves at the sacred fount, a few hurried words passed between them; but they went out of the church separately, and walked off in separate directions. The poblana hastened across the square, and disappeared into a narrow street. The señora walked proudly back to the mansion whence she had come, her countenance radiant with joyful anticipation.
As soon as she had entered the house she proceeded directly to her own chamber, and, opening the little folded slip of paper, read:—
“Querida Catalina!—You have made me happy. But an hour ago I was the most wretched of men. I have lost my sister, and I feared your esteem. Both are restored to me. My sister is by my side, and the gem that sparkles on my finger tells me that even calumny has failed to rob me of your friendship—your love. You do not deem me an assassin. No; nor am I one. I have been an avenger, but no assassin. You shall know all—the fearful plot of which I and mine have been the victims. It is scarce credible—so great is its atrocity! I am indeed its victim. I can no more show myself in the settlement. I am henceforth to be hunted like the wolf, and treated as one, if captured. I care not for that, so long as I know that you are not among my enemies.
“But for you I should go far hence. I cannot leave you. I would sooner risk life every hour in the day, than exile myself from the spot where you dwell—you, the only being I can ever love.
“I have kissed the gem a hundred times. In life, the sweet token can never part from me.
“My foes are after me like bloodhounds, but I fear them not. My brave steed is never out of my sight, and with him I can scorn my cowardly pursuers. But I must venture one visit to the town. I must see you once, querida. I have words for you I cannot trust to paper. Do not refuse to see me, and I shall come to the old place of meeting. To-morrow night—midnight. Do not refuse me, dearest love. I have much to explain that I cannot without seeing you face to face. You shall know that I am not an assassin—that I am still worthy of being your lover.
“Thanks!—thanks for your kindness to my poor little wounded bird! I trust to God she will soon be well again. Mi querida. Adios!”
When the beautiful lady had finished reading the note, she pressed it to her lips, and fervently kissed it.
“Worthy of being my lover!” she murmured; “ay, worthy to be the lover of a queen! Brave, noble Carlos!”
Again she kissed the paper, and, thrusting it into her bosom, glided softly from the apartment.