FullReads

So there, by-and-by, was our continent, with the locomotive whistling from Savannah to Boston along its eastern edge, and on the western the scattered chimes of Spain ringing among the unpeopIed mountains. Thus grew the two sorts of civilization–not equally. We know what has happened since. To-day the locomotive is whistling also from The Golden Gate to San Diego; but still the old mission-road goes through the mountains, and along it the footsteps of vanished Spain are marked with roses, and broken cloisters, and the crucifix.

But this was 1855. Only the barkentine brought to Padre Ignacio the signs from the world that he once had known and loved so dearly. As for the new world making a rude noise to the northward, he trusted that it might keep away from Santa Ysabel, and he waited for the vessel that was overdue with its package containing his single worldly luxury.

As the little, ancient bronze bell continued swinging in the tower, its plaintive call reached something in the Padre’s memory. Softly, absently, he began to sing. He took up the slow strain not quite correctly, and dropped it, and took it up again, always in cadence with the bell.

[musical score appears here]

At length he heard himself, and, glancing at the belfry, smiled a little. “It is a pretty tune,” he said, “and it always made me sorry for poor Fra Diavolo. Auber himself confessed to me that he had made it sad and put the hermitage bell to go with it, because he too was grieved at having to kill his villain, and wanted him, if possible, to die in a religious frame of mind. And Auber touched glasses with me and said–how well I remember it!–‘Is it the good Lord, or is it merely the devil, that makes me always have a weakness for rascals?’ I told him it was the devil. I was not a priest then. I could not be so sure with my answer now.” And then Padre Ignacio repeated Auber’s remark in French: “‘Est-ce le bon Dieu, oui est-ce bien le diable, qui veut tonjours que j’aime les coquins?” I don’t know! I don’t know! I wonder if Auber has composed anything lately? I wonder who is singing ‘Zerlina’ now?”

He cast a farewell look at the ocean, and took his steps between the monastic herbs, the jasmines and the oleanders to the sacristy. “At least,” he said, “if we cannot carry with us into exile the friends and the places we have loved, music will go whither we go, even to an end of the world such as this.–Felipe!” he called to his organist. “Can they sing the music I taught them for the Dixit Dominus to-night?”

“Yes, father, surely.”

“Then we will have that. And, Felipe–” The Padre crossed the chancel to the small, shabby organ. “Rise, my child, and listen. Here is something you can learn. Why, see now if you cannot learn it from a single hearing.”

The swarthy boy of sixteen stood watching his master’s fingers, delicate and white, as they played. Thus, of his own accord, he had begun to watch them when a child of six; and the Padre had taken the wild, half-scared, spellbound creature and made a musician of him.

“There, Felipe!” he said now. “Can you do it? Slower, and more softly, muchacho mio. It is about the death of a man, and it should go with our bell.”

The boy listened. “Then the father has played it a tone too low,” said he, “for our bell rings the note of sol, or something very near it, as the father must surely know.” He placed the melody in the right key–an easy thing for him; and the Padre was delighted.

“Ah, my Felipe,” he exclaimed, “what could you and I not do if we had a better organ! Only a little better! See! above this row of keys would be a second row, and many more stops. Then we would make such music as has never yet been heard in California. But my people are so poor and so few! And some day I shall have passed from them, and it will be too late.”