CONCHA ARGUeELLO, SISTER DOMINICA
BY
GERTRUDE ATHERTON
DEDICATED TO CAROLINA XIMENO
Written for THE SPINNERS' BOOK OF FICTION _All Rights Reserved_
SISTER TERESA had wept bitterly for two days. The vanity for which shedid penance whenever her madonna loveliness, consummated by the whiterobe and veil of her novitiate, tempted her to one of the little mirrorsin the pupil's dormitory, was powerless to check the blighting flow.There had been moments when she had argued that her vanity had itsrights, for had it not played its part in weaning her from theworld?--that wicked world of San Francisco, whose very breath,accompanying her family on their monthly visits to Benicia, made hercross herself and pray that all good girls whom fate had stranded thereshould find the peace and shelter of Saint Catherine of Siena. It wastrue that before Sister Dominica toiled up Rincon Hill on that wonderfulday--here her sobs became so violent that Sister Maria Sal, prayingbeside her with a face as swollen as her own, gave her a sharp poke inthe ribs, and she pressed her hands to her mouth lest she be marchedaway. But her thoughts flowed on; she could pray no more. SisterDominica, with her romantic history and holy life, her halo of fame inthe young country, and her unconquerable beauty--she had never seen sucheyelashes, never, never!--_what_ was she thinking of at such a time?She had never believed that such divine radiance could emanate from anymortal; never had dreamed that beauty and grace could be so enhanced bya white robe and a black veil----Oh, well! Her mind was in a rebelliousmood; it had been in leash too long. And what of it for once in a way?No ball dress she had ever seen in the gay disreputable littlecity--where the good citizens hung the bad for want of law--was half asbecoming as the habit of the Dominican nun, and if it played a part inweaning frivolous girls from the world, so much more to the credit ofRome. God knew she had never regretted her flight up the bays, and evenhad it not been for the perfidy of--she had forgotten his name; that atleast was dead!--she would have realized her vocation the moment SisterDominica sounded the call. When the famous nun, with that passionatehumility all her own, had implored her to renounce the world, protestedthat her vocation was written in her face--she really looked like ajuvenile mater dolorosa, particularly when she rolled up hereyes--eloquently demanded what alternative that hideous embryo of a citycould give her--that rude and noisy city that looked as if it had beentossed together in a night after one of its periodical fires, where theill-made sidewalks tripped the unwary foot, or the winter mud was like aswamp, where the alarm bell summoned the Vigilance Committee day andnight to protect or avenge, where a coarse and impertinent set ofadventurers stared at and followed an inoffensive nun who only left theholy calm of the convent at the command of the Bishop to rescue brandsfrom the burning; then had Teresa, sick with the tragedy of youth, anenchanting vision of secluded paths, where nuns--in white--walked withdowncast eyes and folded hands; of the daily ecstasy of prayer in theconvent chapel misty with incense.
And in some inscrutable way Sister Dominica during that longconversation, while Mrs. Grace and her other daughters dispensed egg-nogin the parlor--it was New Year's Day--had made the young girl a part ofher very self, until Teresa indulged the fancy that without and withinshe was a replica of that Concha Argueello of California's springtime;won her heart so completely that she would have followed her not onlyinto the comfortable and incomparably situated convent of the saint ofSiena, but barefooted into that wilderness of Soledad where the Indiansstill prayed for their lost "Beata." It was just eight months tonightsince she had taken her first vows, and she had been honestly aware thatthere was no very clear line of demarcation in her fervent young mindbetween her love of Sister Dominica and her love of God. Tonight, almostprostrate before the coffin of the dead nun, she knew that so far atleast all the real passion of her youth had flowed in an undeflectedtide about the feet of that remote and exquisite being whose personalcharm alone had made a convent possible in the chaos that followed thediscovery of gold. All the novices, many of the older nuns, the pupilsinvariably, worshipped Sister Dominica; whose saintliness withoutausterity never chilled them, but whose tragic story and the impressionshe made of already dwelling in a heaven of her own, notwithstandingher sweet and consistent humanity, placed her on a pinnacle where anydisplay of affection would have been unseemly. Only once, after thebeautiful ceremony of taking the white veil was over, and Teresa'ssenses were faint from incense and hunger, ecstasy and a new andexquisite terror, Sister Dominica had led her to her cell and kissingher lightly on the brow, exclaimed that she had never been happier in aconquest for the Church against the vileness of the world. Then she haddropped the conventional speech of her calling, and said with anexpression that made her look so young, so curiously virginal, that thenovice had held her breath: "Remember that here there is nothing tointerrupt the life of the imagination, nothing to change its course,like the thousand conflicting currents that batter memory and characterto pieces in the world. In this monotonous round of duty and prayer themind is free, the heart remains ever young, the soul unspotted; so thatwhen----" She had paused, hesitated a moment, then abruptly left theroom, and Teresa had wept a torrent in her disappointment that thisfirst of California's heroines--whose place in history and romance wasassured--had not broken her reserve and told her all that story of manyversions. She had begged Sister Maria Sal--the sister of Luis Argueello'sfirst wife--to tell it her, but the old nun had reproved her sharply forsinful curiosity and upon one occasion boxed her ears. But tonight shemight be in a softer mood, and Teresa resolved that when the last riteswere over she would make her talk of Concha Argueello.
A few moments later she was lifted to her feet by a shaking but stillpowerful arm.
"Come!" whispered Sister Maria. "It is time to prepare. The others havegone. It is singular that the oldest and the youngest should have lovedher best. Ay! Dios de mi alma! I never thought that Concha Argueellowould die. Grow old she never did, in spite of the faded husk. We willlook at her once more."
The dead nun in her coffin lay in the little parlor where she had turnedso many wavering souls from fleeting to eternal joys. Her features,wasted during years of delicate health, seemed to regain something oftheir youth in the soft light of the candles. Or was it the long blackeyelashes that hid the hollows beneath the eyes?--or the faintmysterious almost mocking smile? Had the spirit in its eternal youthpaused in its flight to stamp a last sharp impress upon the prostrateclay? Never had she looked so virginal, and that had been one of themost arresting qualities of her always remarkable appearance; but therewas something more--Teresa held her breath. Somehow, dead and in hercoffin, she looked less saintly than in life; although as pure andsweet, there was less of heavenly peace on those marble features than ofsome impassioned human hope. Teresa excitedly whispered her unrulythoughts to Sister Maria, but instead of the expected reproof the oldnun lifted her shoulders.
"Perhaps," she said. "Who knows?"
* * * * *
It was Christmas eve and all the inmates of the convent paused in theirsorrow to rejoice in the happy portent of the death and burial of onewhom they loyally believed to be no less entitled to beatification thanCatherine herself. Her miracles may not have been of the irreducibleprotoplastic order, but they had been miracles to the practicalCalifornian mind, notwithstanding, and worthy of the attention ofconsistory and Pope. Moreover, this was the season when all the vivacityand gaiety of her youth had revived, and she made merry, not only forthe children left at the convent by their nomadic parents, but for allthe children of the town, whatever the faith of their somewhat anxiouselders.
An hour after sundown they carried the bier on which her coffin restedinto the chapel. It was a solemn procession that none, taking part, waslikely to forget, and stirred the young hearts at least with an ecstaticdesire for a life as saintly as this that hardly had needed the crown ofdeath.
Following the bier was the cross-bearer, holding the emblem so high itwas half lost in the shadows. Behind h
er were the young scholars dressedin black, then the novices in their white robes and veils, carryinglighted tapers to symbolize the eternal radiance that awaited the purein spirit. The nuns finished the procession that wound its way slowlythrough the long ill-lighted corridors, chanting the litany of the dead.From the chapel, at first almost inaudible, but waxing louder everymoment, came the same solemn monotonous chant; for the Bishop and hisassistants were already at the altar....
Teresa, from the organ loft, looked eagerly down upon the beautifulscene, in spite of the exaltation that filled her: her artistic sensewas the one individuality she possessed. The chapel was aglow with thesoft radiance of many wax candles. They stood in high candelabra againstthe somber drapery on the walls, and there were at least a hundred aboutthe coffin on its high catafalque before the altar; the Argueellos wereas prodigal as of old. About the catafalque was an immense mound ofroses from the garden of the convent, and palms and pampas from theranch of Santiago Argueello in the south. The black-robed scholars knelton one side of the dead, the novices on the other, the relatives andfriends behind. But art had perfected itself in the gallery above thelower end of the chapel. This also was draped with black which seemed toabsorb, then shed forth again the mystic brilliance of the candles; andkneeling, well apart, were the nuns in their ivory white robes and blackveils, their banded softened features as composed and peaceful as iftheir own reward had come.
The Bishop and the priests read the Requiem Mass, the little organpealed the _De Profundis_ as if inspired; and when the imperioustriumphant music of Handel followed, Teresa's fresh young sopranoseemed, to her excited imagination, to soar to the gates of heavenitself. When she looked down again the lights were dim in the incense,her senses swam in the pungent odor of spices and gum. The Bishop waswalking about the catafalque casting holy water with a brush against thecoffin above. He walked about a second time swinging the heavy coppercenser, then pronounced the _Requiescat in pace_, "dismissing," as wefind inscribed in the convent records, "a tired soul out of all thestorms of life into the divine tranquillity of death."
The bier was again shouldered, the procession reformed, and marched,still with lighted tapers and chanting softly, out into the cemetery ofthe convent. It was a magnificent, clear night and as mild as spring.Below the steep hill the little town of Benicia celebrated the eve ofChristmas with lights and noise. Beyond, the water sparkled like runningsilver under the wide beams of the moon poised just above the peak ofMonte Diablo, the old volcano that towered high above this romantic andbeautiful country of water and tule lands, steep hillsides and canons,rocky bluffs overhanging the straits. In spite of the faint discordsthat rose from the town and the slow tolling of the convent bell, it wasa scene of lofty and primeval grandeur, a fit setting for the lastearthly scene of a woman whose lines had been cast in the wilderness,but yet had found the calm and the strength and the peace of the oldmountain, with its dead and buried fires.
The grave closed, the mourners returned to the convent, but not inorder. At the door Teresa felt her arm taken possession of by a stronghand with which she had had more than one disconcerting encounter.
"Let us walk," said Sister Maria Sal in her harsh but strong old voice."I have permission. I must talk of Concha tonight or I should burst. Itis not for nothing one keeps silent for years and years. I at least amstill human. And you loved her the best and have spoiled your prettyface with weeping. You must not do that again, for the young love apretty nun and will follow her into the one true life on earth farsooner than an ugly old phiz like mine."
Sister Maria, indeed, retained not an index of the beauty with whichtradition accredited her youth. She was a stout unwieldy old woman witha very red face covered half over with black down, and in the brightmoonlight Teresa could see the three long hairs that stood out straightfrom a mole above her mouth and scratched the girls when she kissedthem. Tonight her nose was swollen and her eyes looked like appleseeds.Teresa hastily composed her features and registered a vow that in herold age she would look like Sister Dominica, not like that. She hadheard that Concha, too, had been frivolous in her youth, and had not sheherself a tragic bit of a story? True, her youthful love-tides hadturned betimes from the grave beside the Mission Dolores to the lovelynun and the God of both, and she had heard that Dona Concha had provedher fidelity to a wonderful Russian throughout many years before shetook the veil. Perhaps--who knew?--her more conformable pupil might haverestored the worthless to her heart before he was knifed in the fulllight of day on Montgomery Street by one from whom he had won more thanthousands the night before; perhaps have consoled herself with anotherless eccentric, had not Sister Dominica sought her at the right momentand removed her from the temptations of the world. Well, never mind, shecould at least be a good nun and an amiable instructor of youth, and ifshe never looked like a living saint she would grow soberer and noblerwith the years and take care that she grew not stout and red.
For a time Sister Maria did not speak, but walked rapidly and heavily upand down the path, dragging her companion with her and staring out atthe beauty of the night. But suddenly she slackened her pace and burstinto speech.
"Ay yi! Ay de mi! To think that it is nearly half a century--forty-twoyears to be precise--for will it not be 1858 in one more week?--sinceRezanov sailed out through what Fremont has called 'The Golden Gate'!And forty-one in March since he died--not from the fall of a horse, asSir George Simpson (who had not much regard for the truth anyway, for hegave a false picture of our Concha), and even Doctor Langsdorff, whoshould have known better, wrote it, but worn out, worn out, afterterrible hardships, and a fever that devoured him inch by inch. And hewas so handsome when he left us! Dios de mi alma! never have I seen aman like that. If I had I should not be here now, perhaps, so it is aswell. But never was I even engaged, and when permission came from Madridfor the marriage of my sister Rafaella with Luis Argueello--he was anofficer and could not marry without a special license from the King, andthrough some strange oversight he was six long years getting it--; well,I lived with them and took care of the children until Rafaella--Ay yi!what a good wife she made him, for he 'toed the mark,' as the Americanssay--; well, she died, and one of those days he married another; forwill not men be men? And Luis was a good man in spite of all, a fineloyal clever man, who deserves the finest monument in the cemetery ofthe Mission Dolores--as they call it now. The Americans have no respectfor anything and will not say San Francisco de Assisi, for it is toolong and they have time for nothing but the gold. Were it not a sin,how I should hate them, for they have stolen our country from us--butno, I will not; and, to be sure, if Rezanov had lived he would have hadit first, so what difference? Luis, at least, was spared. He died in1830--and was the first Governor of Alta California after Mexico threwoff the yoke of Spain. He had power in full measure and went beforethese upstart conquerors came to humble the rest of us into the dust.Peace to his ashes--but perhaps you care nothing for this dear brotherof my youth, never heard of him before--such a giddy thing you were;although at the last earthquake the point of his monument flew straightinto the side of the church and struck there, so you may have heard thetalk before they put it back in its place. It is of Sister Dominica youthink, but I think not only of her but of those old days--Ay, Dios demi! Who remembers that time but a few old women like myself?
"Concha's father, Don Jose Dario Argueello, was Commandante of thePresidio of San Francisco then; and there was nothing else to call SanFrancisco but the Mission. Down at Yerba Buena, where the Americansflaunt themselves, there was but a Battery that could not give even adance. But we had dances at the Presidio; day and night the guitartinkled and the fiddles scraped; for what did we know of care, or oldage, or convents or death? I was many years younger than Rafaella anddid not go to the grand balls, but to the little dances, yes, many andmany. When the Russians came--it was in 1806--I saw them every day, andone night danced with Rezanov himself. He was so gay--ay de mi! Iremember he swung me quite off my feet and made as if he would throw mein the
air. I was angry that he should treat me like a baby, and then hebegged me so humbly to forgive him, although his eyes laughed, that ofcourse I did. He had come down from Sitka to try and arrange for atreaty with the Spanish government that the poor men in the employ ofthe Russian-American Company might have breadstuffs to eat and not dieof scurvy, nor toil through the long winter with no flesh on theirbones. He brought a cargo with him to exchange for our corn and flourmeanwhile. We had never seen any one so handsome and so grand and heturned all our heads, but he had a hard time with the Governor and DonJose--there are no such Californians now or the Americans would neverhave got us--and it took all his diplomacy and all the help Concha andthe priests could give him before he got his way, for there was a lawagainst trading with foreigners. It was only when he and Concha becameengaged that Governor Arillaga gave in--how I pick up vulgar expressionsfrom these American pupils, I who should reform them! And did I notstand Ellen O'Reilley in the corner yesterday for calling San Francisco'Frisco'?--_San Francisco de Assisi!_ But all the saints have fled fromCalifornia.
"Where was I? Forgive an old woman's rambling, but I have not toldstories since Rafaella's children grew up, and that was many years ago.What do I talk here? You know. And I that used to love to talk. Ay yi!But no one can say that I am not a good nun. Bishop Alemany has said itand no one knows better than he, the holy man. But for him I might besitting all day on a corridor in the south sunning myself like an oldcrocodile, for we had no convent till he came eight years ago; andperhaps but for Concha, whom I always imitated, I might have a dozenbrats of my own, for I was pretty and had my wooers and might have beenpersuaded. And God knows, since I must have the care of children, Iprefer they should be mothered by some one else for then I have alwaysthe hope to be rid of them the sooner. Well, well! I am not a saint yet,and when I go to heaven I suppose Concha will still shake her finger atme with a smile. Not that she was ever self-righteous, our Concha. Not abit of it. Only after that long and terrible waiting she just naturallybecame a saint. Some are made that way and some are not. That is all.
"Did I tell you about the two young lieutenants that came with BaronRezanov? Davidov and Khostov their names were. Well, well, I shall tellall tonight. I was but fourteen, but what will you? Was I not, then,Spanish? It was Davidov. He always left the older people to romp withthe children, although I think there was a flame in his heart forConcha. Perhaps had I been older--who knows? Do not look at my whiskers!That was forty-two years ago. Well, I dreamed of the fair kind youngRussian for many a night after he left, and when my time came to marry Iwould look at none of the caballeros, but nursed Rafaella's babies andthought my thoughts. And then--in 1815 I think it was--the good--andugly--Dr. Langsdorff sent Luis a copy of his book--he had been surgeonto his excellency--and alas! it told of the terrible end of both thosegay kind young men. They were always too fond of brandy; we knew that,but we never--well, hear me! One night not so many years after theysailed away from California, they met Dr. Langsdorff and another friendof their American days, Captain D'Wolf, by appointment in St. Petersburgfor a grand reunion. They were all so happy! Perhaps it was that madethem too much 'celebrate,' as the Americans say in their dialect. Well,alas! they celebrated until four in the morning, and then my two dearyoung Russians--for I loved Khostov as a sister, so devoted he was to myfriend--well, they started--on foot--for home, and that was on the otherside of the Neva. They had almost crossed the bridge when they suddenlytook it into their heads that they wanted to see their friends again,and started back. Alas, in the middle of the bridge was a section thatopened to permit the passage of boats with tall masts. The night wasdark and stormy. The bridge was open. They did not see it. The river wasroaring and racing like a flood. A sailor saw them fall, and then strikeback for the coming boat. Then he saw them no more. That was the last ofmy poor friends.
"And we had all been so gay, so gay! For how could we know? All theRussians said that never had they seen a people so light-hearted andfrolicking as the Californians, so hospitable, so like one great family.And we were, we were. But you know of that time. Was not your motherConchitita Castro, if she did marry an American and has not taught youten words of Spanish? It is of Concha you would hear, and I ramble.Well, who knows? perhaps I hesitate. Rezanov was of the Greek Church. Nopriest in California would have married them even had Don Jose--_elsanto_ we called him--given his consent. It was for that reason Rezanovwent to obtain a dispensation from His Holiness and a license from theKing of Spain. Concha knew that he could not return for two years ornearly that, nor even send her a letter; for why should ships come downfrom Sitka until the treaty was signed? Only Rezanov could get what hewanted, law or no law. And then too our Governor had forbidden theBritish and Bostonians--so we called the Americans in those days--toenter our ports. This Concha knew, and when one knows one can think instoreys, as it were, and put the last at the top. It is not so bad asthe hope that makes the heart thump every morning and the eyes turn intofountains at night. Dios! To think that I should ever have shed a tearover a man. Chinchosas, all of them. However--I think Concha, who wasnever quite as others, knew deep down in her heart that he would notcome back, that it was all too good to be true. Never was a man seen ashandsome as that one, and so clever--a touch of the devil in hiscleverness, but that may have been because he was a Russian. I know not.And to be a great lady in St. Petersburg, and later--who cantell?--vice-Tsarina of all this part of the world! No, it could not be.It was a fairy tale. I only wonder that the bare possibility came intothe life of any woman,--and that a maiden of New Spain, in an unknowncorner, that might as well have been on Venus or Mars.
"But Concha had character. She was not one to go into adecline--although I am woman enough to know that her pillow was wet manynights; and besides she lost the freshness of her beauty. She was oftenas gay as ever, but she cared less and less for the dance, and foundmore to do at home. Don Jose was made Commandante of the Santa BarbaraCompany that same year, and it was well for her to be in a place wherethere were no memories of Rezanov. But late in the following year as thetime approached for his return, or news of him, she could not containher impatience. We all saw it--I was visiting the Pachecos in thePresidio of Santa Barbara. She grew so thin. Her eyes were never still.We knew. And then!--how many times she climbed to the fortress--it wason that high bluff beside the channel--and stared out to sea--when 1808and the Spring had come--for hours together: Rezanov was to return byway of Mexico. Then, when I went back to San Francisco soon after, shewent with me, and again she would watch the sea from the summit of LoneMountain, as we call it now. In spite of her reason she hoped, Isuppose; for that is the way of women. Or perhaps she only longed forthe word from Sitka that would tell her the worst and have done with it.Who knows? She never said, and we dared not speak of it. She was alwaysvery sweet, our Concha, but there never was a time when you could take aliberty with her.
"SHE WAS ALWAYS VERY SWEET OUR CONCHA,BUT THERE NEVER WAS A TIME WHEN YOU COULD TAKE A LIBERTY WITH HER."FROM A PAINTING BY LILLIE V. O'RYAN.]
"No ship came, but something else did--an earthquake! Ay yi, what anearthquake that was! Not a _temblor_ but a _terremoto_. The wholePresidio came down. I do not know now how we saved all the babies,but we always flew to the open with a baby under each arm the moment anearthquake began, and in the first seconds even this was not so bad. Thewall about the Presidio was fourteen feet high and seven feet thick andthere were solid trunks of trees crossed inside the adobe. It lookedlike a heap of dirt, nothing more. Luis was riding up from the Batteryof Yerba Buena and his horse was flung down and he saw the sand-dunesheaving toward him like waves in a storm and shiver like quicksilver.And there was a roar as if the earth had dropped and the sea gone after.Ay California! And to think that when Luis wrote a bitter letter toGovernor Arillaga in Monterey, the old Mexican wrote back that he hadfelt earthquakes himself and sent him a box of dates for consolation!Well--we slept on the ground for two months and cooked out-of-doors, forwe would not go even into the Mission--which h
ad not suffered--until theearthquakes were over; and if the worst comes first there are plentyafter--and, somehow, harder to bear. Perhaps to Concha that terribletime was a God-send, for she thought no more of Rezanov for a while. Ifthe earthquake does not swallow your body it swallows your little self.You are a flea. Just that and nothing more.
"But after a time all was quiet again; the houses were rebuilt andConcha went back to Santa Barbara. By that time she knew that Rezanovwould never come, although it was several years before she had a word.Such stories have been told that she did not know of his death forthirty years! Did not Baranhov, Chief-manager of the Russian-AlaskanCompany up there at Sitka, send Koskov--that name was so like!--toBodega Bay in 1812, and would he fail to send such news with him? Wasnot Dr. Langsdorff's book published in 1814? Did not Kotzbue, who was onhis excellency's staff during the embassy to Japan, come to us in 1816,and did we not talk with him every day for a month? Did not Rezanov'sdeath spoil all Russia's plans in this part of the world--perhaps, whoknows? alter the course of her history? It is likely we were longwithout hearing the talk of the North! Such nonsense! Yes, she knew itsoon enough, but as that good Padre Abella once said to us, she had themaking of the saint and the martyr in her, and even when she could hopeno more she did not die, nor marry some one else, nor wither up and spitat the world. Long before the news came, indeed, she carried out a planshe had conceived, so Padre Abella told us, even while Rezanov was yethere. There were no convents in California in those days--you may knowwhat a stranded handful we were--but she joined the Tertiary or ThirdOrder of Franciscans, and wore always the grey habit, the girdle, andthe cross. She went among the Indians christianizing them, remaining along while at Soledad, a bleak and cheerless place, where she was also agreat solace to the wives of the soldiers and settlers, whose childrenshe taught. The Indians called her 'La Beata,' and by that name she wasknown in all California until she took the veil, and that was more thanforty years later. And she was worshipped, no less. So beautiful shewas, so humble, so sweet, and at the same time so practical; she hadwhat the Americans call 'hard sense,' and something of Rezanov's ownway of managing people. When she made up her mind to bring a sinner or asavage into the Church she did it. You know.
"But do not think she had her way in other things without a struggle.Don Jose and Dona Ignacia--her mother--permitted her to enter upon thereligious life, for they understood; and Luis and Santiago made noprotest either, for they understood also and had loved Rezanov. But therest of her family, the relations, the friends, the young men--thecaballeros! They went in a body you might say to Don Jose and demandedthat Concha, the most beautiful and fascinating and clever girl in NewSpain, should come back to the world where she belonged,--be given inmarriage. But Concha had always ruled Don Jose, and all the protestswent to the winds. And William Sturgis--the young Bostonian who livedwith us for so many years? I have not told you of him, and your motherwas too young to remember. Well, never mind. He would have taken Conchafrom California, given her just a little of what she would have had asthe wife of Rezanov--not in himself; he was as ugly as my whiskers; butenough of the great world to satisfy many women, and no one could denythat he was good and very clever. But to Concha he was a brother--nomore. Perhaps she did not even take the trouble to refuse him. It was away she had. After a while he went home to Boston and died of theclimate. I was very sorry. He was one of us.
"And her intellect? Concha put it to sleep forever. She never readanother book of travel, of history, biography, memoirs, essays,poetry--romance she had never read, and although some novels came toCalifornia in time she never opened them. It was peace she wanted, notthe growing mind and the roving imagination. She brought herconversation down to the level of the humblest, and perhaps--whoknows?--her thoughts. At all events, although the time came when shesmiled again, and was often gay when we were all together in thefamily--particularly with the children, who came very fast, ofcourse--well, she was then another Concha, not that brilliantdissatisfied ambitious girl we had all known, who had thought thegreatest gentleman from the Viceroy's court not good enough to throwgold at her feet when she danced El Son.
"There were changes in her life. In 1814 Don Jose was made GobernadorPropietario of Lower California. He took all of his unmarried childrenwith him, and Concha thought it her duty to go. They lived in Loretountil 1821. But Concha never ceased to pray that she might return toCalifornia--we never looked upon that withered tongue of Mexico asCalifornia; and when Don Jose died soon after his resignation, and hermother went to live with her married daughters, Concha returned with thegreatest happiness she had known, I think, since Rezanov went. Was notCalifornia all that was left her?
"She lived in Santa Barbara for many years, in the house of Don Jose dela Guerra--in that end room of the east wing. She had many relations, itis true, but Concha was always human and liked relations better when shewas not surrounded by them. Although she never joined in any of thefestivities of that gay time she was often with the Guerra family andseemed happy enough to take up her old position as Beata among theIndians and children, until they built a school for her in Monterey. Howwe used to wonder if she ever thought of Rezanov any more. From the daythe two years were over she never mentioned his name, and everybodyrespected her reserve, even her parents. And she grew more and morereserved with the years, never speaking of herself at all, except justafter her return from Mexico. But somehow we knew. And did not the verylife she had chosen express it? Even the Church may not reach the secretplaces of the soul, and who knows what heaven she may have found inhers? And now? I think purgatory is not for Concha, and he was not badas men go, and has had time to do his penance. It is true the Churchtells us there is no marrying in heaven--but, well, perhaps there is aunion for mated spirits of which the Church knows nothing. You saw herexpression in her coffin.
"Well! The time arrived when we had a convent. Bishop Alemany came in1850, and in the first sermon he preached in Santa Barbara--I think itwas his first in California--he announced that he wished to found aconvent. He was a Dominican, but one order was as another to Concha; shehad never been narrow in anything. As soon as the service was over,before he had time to leave the church, she went to him and asked to bethe first to join. He was glad enough, for he knew of her and that noone could fill his convent as rapidly as she. Therefore was she thefirst nun, the first to take holy vows, in our California. For alittle, the convent was in the old Hartnell house in Monterey, but DonManuel Ximeno had built a great hotel while believing, with all therest, that Monterey would be the capital of the new California as of theold, and he was glad to sell it to the Bishop. We were delighted--ofcourse I followed when Concha told me it was my vocation--that theAmericans preferred Yerba Buena.
"Concha took her first vows in April, soon after the Bishop's arrival,choosing the name Sister Maria, Dominica. On the 13th of April 1852 shetook the black veil and perpetual vows. Of course the convent had aschool at once. Concha's school had been a convent of a sort and theBishop merely took it over. All the flower of California have beeneducated by Concha Argueello, including Chonita Estenega who is so greata lady in Mexico today. Two years later we came here, and here we shallstay, no doubt. I think Concha loved Benicia better than any part ofCalifornia she had known, for it was still California without toopiercing reminders of the past: life at the other Presidios and Missionswas but the counterpart of our San Francisco, and here the priests andmilitary had never come. In this beautiful wild spot where the elk andthe antelope and the deer run about like rabbits, and you meet a bear ifyou go too far--Holy Mary!--where she went sometimes in a boat among thetules on the river, and where one may believe the moon lives in a silverlake in the old crater of Monte Diablo--Ay, it was different enough andmight bring peace to any heart. What she must have suffered for yearsin those familiar scenes! But she never told. And now she lies hereunder her little cross and he in Krasnoiarsk--under a stone shaped likean altar, they say. Well! who knows? That is all. I go in now; my oldbones ache with the night damp.
But my mind is lighter, although never Ishall speak of this again. And do you not think of it any more.Curiosity and the world and such nonsense as love and romance are notfor us. Go to bed at once and tie a stocking round your throat that youhave not a frog in it tomorrow morning when you sing 'Glory be to God onHigh.' _Buen Dias!_"