Читать книгу Lamy of Santa Fe - Paul Horgan - Страница 40

vii.

Triumphal Entry

EARLY ON SUNDAY, 9 AUGUST 1851, they were drawing near enough to be able to see the city. Lamy had thought it probable that “some of the faithful” would come out to meet his party, but he was astounded to see many thousands advancing at a point five or six miles from the first houses, and his first assumption was that the local garrison was leading a welcome to the troop detachment which accompanied him. In another moment he must accept the welcome on his own account. Most conspicuous in a magnificent carriage was the United States Territorial Governor James Calhoun. He greeted the bishop warmly. The resident Mexican rural dean came forward—Very Reverend Mon-signor Juan Felipe Ortiz—”a large, fat-looking man” with reddish hair —to pay his respects to Lamy, and the governor took the two into his own carriage. All the civil and military authorities were on hand, and leading citizens, riding in the finest carriages gathered from the city and the country for miles around. Among the festive thousands were ranks of Indian dancers, each group in its own characteristic costume, who “performed their evolutions” along the way.

As the elated procession came to the city, the American artillery at Fort Marcy on its height commanding the plaza fired cannonades in salute. The road of the bishop’s entry—evidently San Francisco street leading directly to the parish church of St Francis, which would become the cathedral—was superbly transformed into a lane of “beautiful cedar trees, which the day before had been brought in and planted for the occasion.” All the houses were decorated with their best fabrics—silks and carpets hung from the windows, doors, and balconies—while the animated populace attended the progress up the earthen street.

Going direct to the church of St Francis, the bishop entered the sacristy to change from his dusty travel clothes. The church was filled, the women kneeling on the floor, with black shawls over their heads, while the men stood at the rear. The principal church, it was in poor repair. There was no floor but the packed earth. Particles of the adobe ceiling and walls flaked down. Whenever at rare intervals there should be rain, mud puddles gathered on the floor. The nave was long and narrow, with dim transepts establishing the shape of the cross. On each side of the main chamber were life-sized wax figures left behind from the time when Franciscans administered the province. These were effigies of painted friars with tonsured heads, one group wearing white habits, the other blue, all cinctured with the knotted Franciscan girdles. The altar was a garish bower of ornate mirrors, paintings or colored prints, and brightly colored hangings. Colored glass high up in the walls cast a reddish glow over the interior. A Mexican string orchestra waited for the bishop’s entrance, with all the available clergy, for the singing of the Te Deum. He was now robed in his purple cassock, surplice, mozzeta, and a heavy white stole embroidered in gold bullion. Machebeuf, as his vicar general, accompanied him.

Looking upon him clearly now, the people saw Lamy in his early middle age, with the signs of ten years of hard, maturing work on him. Gaunt and sparely built, he was weathered from his travels. His manner was mild but when he met their gaze, his dark eyes sparkled. His head was broadly modelled, with deeply porched eyes and strongly shadowed cheeks, outlined by his long, dark, curly hair. In repose his wide mouth wore a melancholy expression, but when he smiled people felt the illumination of his nature. Patience, civility, and intelligence marked his face. His jaw was bony and square, and his chin was resolute. He seemed young—and in fact was, at thirty-seven—to be a bishop. His vicar general looked older than he. They saw that Machebeuf was shorter, and how his thin little frame seemed to quiver with controlled animation. His hair, long and brushed straight back from his spacious brow, was light. His face was as plain as the bishop’s was handsome. Over his deep-set little eyes he wore small spectacles rimmed in metal. His face was lean, with marked cheekbones, and his mouth was a trifle protuberant, with a thick lower lip. A large mole made a lump on his right jaw. His collar was too large for his thin neck. Through all this, his witty and compassionate nature charmed people’s spirits when they looked at him. However curious a pair they were to come before strangers whose ways and wants were so different, the Santa Feans paid respect to their offices now.

The Te Deum was sung, and in the liturgical intervals, the music of the fandangos—for it was the only music available—twanged forth from the string players. Lamy at the end gave his triple blessing, and was then conducted to the adjacent rector’s house of Monsignor Ortiz. What Lamy found there amazed him. The house, as both he and Machebeuf remarked, was transformed into a veritable “Episcopal palace”—presumably with rich furniture, hangings, and rugs. Ortiz had moved out in order to accommodate the bishop, and had taken up residence under his mother’s roof. The rectory looked like a suitable lodgement and Lamy resolved to live there.

Now followed a “magnificent dinner” to which came all the leading authorities and citizens of the town, including Mexicans and immigrant Americans, Protestants and Catholics alike, military and civil. It was such a feast, declared Machebeuf, as to cause Lamy and himself to forget entirely their long journey across the Texas deserts.

The day needed only one more blessing to make it memorable. As at El Paso, and all the length of New Mexico, the drought over Santa Fe had been ruinous. Fields and ranges were scorched, cattle and sheep were dying of starvation, the hardest of times faced the people. Like everyone in New Mexico, the guests at the ceremonial dinner were all concerned at the disaster which threatened. And then, on the very day of the bishop’s arrival, clouds appeared from across the mountains, and rain fell in torrents until the earthen streets ran like brown rivers. The downpour was general. Crops would revive, the grass ranges be saved. The year would be one of plenty after all. In the common thought, could it be anything but an omen?

The day’s welcome could hardly have been more joyful, and, in terms of what was to be had in Santa Fe, extravagant. But if Lamy thought it an auspicious beginning for his new labors, he was wrong.