But then the Church in Mexico has to move gingerly; it is not popular, and its claws are cut. The priest may not ring the church bells for more than three minutes. Neither priests nor monks may wear any habit in the street, beyond the hideous black vest and white collar of the Protestant clergy. So that the priest shows himself as little as possible in the street, and practically never in the chief streets and the chief plazas.
Nevertheless, he still has influence. Processions in the streets are forbidden, but not sermons from the pulpit, nor advice from the confessional. Montes, the President, had no love for the Church, and was meditating the expulsion of all foreign priests. The Archbishop himself was an Italian. But he was also a fighter.
He gave orders to all the priests, to forbid the people from listening to anything concerned with Quetzalcoatl, to destroy any hymn-sheet that might fall into their hands, and to prevent as far as possible the Hymns from being read, and the Songs from being sung, in the parishes.
But Montes had given orders to the police and the military to afford such protection to the Men of Quetzalcoatl as was accorded to any other law-abiding citizen.
Mexico is not Mexico for nothing, however, and already blood had been shed on both sides. This Ramón particularly wanted to avoid, as he felt that violent death was not so easily wiped out of the air and out of the souls of men, as spilt blood was washed off the pavements.
Therefore, when he was in the City, he asked the Bishop of the West if he would consent to an interview with himself and Don Cipriano, and would he name the place. The Bishop — who was an old friend and adviser of Carlota, and who knew Ramón well enough — replied that he would be pleased to see Don Ramón and the Señor General the next day, if they would be so good as to come to his house.
The Bishop no longer occupied the great episcopal palace. This was turned into the post-office building. But he had a large house not far from the Cathedral, which had been presented by the faithful.
Ramón and Cipriano found the thin old man in a dusty, uninteresting library, waiting. He wore a simple black cassock, not too clean, with purple buttons. He received Ramón, who was in a black town suit, and Cipriano, who was in uniform, with an affable manner and suspicious looks. But he played at being the lively, genial old bird.
‘Ah, Don Ramón, it is long since I saw you! How goes it, eh? Well, well? That is good! That is very good!’ And he patted Ramón on the sleeve like a fussy old uncle. ‘Ah, my General, much honour, much honour! Welcome to this poor house of yours. It is the house of your Honour! To serve you! Gentlemen! Won’t you take a seat?’
They all sat down, in the dusty, dreary room, in the old leather chairs. The Bishop nervously looked at his thin old hands, at the fine, but rather dull amethyst ring he wore.
‘Good! Señores!’ he said, glancing up with his little black eyes. ‘At your service! Entirely at the service of your Honours.’
‘Doña Carlota is in the city, Father. You have seen her?’ said Ramón.
‘Yes, son of mine,’ said the Bishop.
‘Then you know the latest news about me. She told you everything.’
‘Somewhat! Somewhat! She spoke somewhat of you, the poor little thing. Thanks to God she has her sons with her. They are safely back in their native country, in good health.’
‘Did you see them?’
‘Yes! yes! Two of my dearest children! Very sympathetic, very intelligent, like their father; and, like him, promising to be of very handsome presence. Yes! yes! Smoke if you will, my General. Don’t hesitate.’
Cipriano lit a cigarette. From old associations, he was nervous, albeit amused.
‘You know all about what I want to do, Father?’ said Ramón.
‘I don’t know all, son of mine, but I know enough. I wouldn’t want to hear more. Eh!’ he sighed. ‘It is very sad.’
‘Not so very sad, Father, if we don’t make it sad. Why make a sad thing out of it, Father? We are in Mexico for the most part Indians. They cannot understand the high Christianity, Father, and the Church knows it. Christianity is a religion of the spirit, and must needs be understood if it is to have any effect. The Indians cannot understand it, any more than the rabbits of the hills.’
‘Very good! Very good! Son of mine! But we can convey it to them. The rabbits of the hills are in the hands of God.’
‘No, Father, it is impossible. And without a religion that will connect them with the universe, they will all perish. Only religion will serve; not socialism, nor education, nor anything.’
‘Thou speakest well,’ said the Bishop.
‘The rabbits of the hills may be in the hands of God, Father. But they are at the mercy of men. The same with Mexico. The people sink heavier and heavier into inertia, and the Church cannot help them, because the Church does not possess the key-word to the Mexican soul.’
‘Doesn’t the Mexican soul know the Voice of God?’ said the Bishop.
‘Your own children may know your voice, Father. But if you go out to speak to the birds on the lake, or the deer among the mountains, will they know your voice? Will they wait and listen?’
‘Who knows? It is said they waited to listen to the Holy Francisco of Assisi.’
‘Now, Father, we must speak to the Mexicans in their own language, and give them the clue-word to their own souls. I shall say Quetzalcoatl. If I am wrong, let me perish. But I am not wrong.’
The Bishop fidgeted rather restlessly. He didn’t want to hear all this. And he did not want to answer. He was impotent anyhow.
‘Your Church is the Catholic Church, Father?’
‘Surely!’ said the Bishop.
‘And Catholic Church means the Church of All, the Universal Church?’
‘Surely, son of mine.’
‘Then why not let it be really catholic? Why call it catholic, when it is not only just one among many Churches, but is even hostile to all the rest of the churches? Father, why not let the Catholic Church become really the Universal Church?’
‘It is the Universal Church of Christ, my son.’
‘Why not let it be the Universal Church of Mohammed as well; since ultimately, God is One God, but the peoples speak varying languages, and each needs its own prophet to speak with its own tongue. The Universal Church of Christ, and Mohammed, and Buddha, and Quetzalcoatl, and all the others — that would be a Catholic Church, Father.’
‘You speak of things beyond me,’ said the Bishop, turning his ring.
‘Not beyond any man,’ said Don Ramón. ‘A Catholic Church is a church of all the religions, a home on earth for all the prophets and the Christs, a big tree under which every man who acknowledges the greater life of the soul can sit and be refreshed. Isn’t that the Catholic Church, Father?’
‘Alas, my son, I know the Apostolic Church of Christ in Rome, of which I am a humble servant. I do not understand these clever things you are saying to me.’
‘I am asking you for peace, Father. I am not one who hates the Church of Christ, the Roman Catholic Church. But in Mexico I think it has no place. When my heart is not bitter, I am grateful forever to Christ, the Son of God. The affair of the Judases grieves me more than it does you, and the affairs of bloodshed are far bitterer to me.’
‘I am no innovator, my son, to provoke bloodshed.’
‘Listen! I am going to remove the holy images from the church at Sayula, with reverence, and with reverence burn them upon the lake. Then I shall put the image of Quetzalcoatl in the church at Sayula.’
The Bishop looked up furtively. For some moments he said nothing. But his silence was furtive, cornered.
‘Would you dare do that, Don Ramón?’ he said.
‘Yes! And I shall not be prevented. General Viedma is with me.’
The Bishop glanced sideways at Cipriano.
‘Certainly,’ said Cipriano.
‘Nevertheless it is illegal,’ said the Bishop, with acid bitterness.
‘What is illegal in Mexico?’ said Ramón. ‘What is weak is illegal. I will n
ot be weak, My Lord.’
‘Lucky you!’ said the Bishop, lifting his shoulders.
There was a break of silence.
‘No!’ said Ramón. ‘I come to ask you for peace. Tell the Archbishop what I say. Let him tell the Cardinals and the Pope that the time has come for a Catholic Church of the Earth, the Catholic Church of All the Sons of Men. The Saviours are more than one, and let us pray they will still be increased. But God is one God, and the Saviours are the Sons of the One God. Let the Tree of the Church spread its branches over all the earth, and shelter the prophets in its shade, as they sit and speak their knowledge of the beyond.’
‘Are you one of these prophets, Don Ramón?’
‘I surely am, Father. And I would speak about Quetzalcoatl in Mexico, and build his Church here.’
‘Nay! You would invade the Churches of Christ and the Blessed Virgin, I heard you say.’
‘You know my intentions. But I do not want to quarrel with the Church of Rome, nor have bloodshed and enmity, Father. Can you not understand me? Should there not be peace between the men who strive down their different ways to the God-Mystery?’
‘Once more desecrate the altars! Bring in strange idols. Burn the images of Our Lord and Our Lady, and ask for peace?’ said the poor Bishop, who helplessly longed to be left alone.
‘All that, Father,’ said Ramón.
‘Son, what can I answer? You are a good man smitten with the madness of pride. Don Cipriano is one more Mexican general. I am the poor old Bishop of this diocese, faithful servant of the Holy Church, humble child of the Holy Father in Rome. What can I do? What can I answer? Take me out to the cemetery and shoot me at once, General!’
‘I don’t want to,’ said Cipriano.
‘It will end like that,’ said the Bishop.
‘But why?’ cried Don Ramón. ‘Is there no sense in what I say? Cannot you understand?’
‘My son, my understanding goes no farther than my faith, my duty, will allow. I am not a clever man, I live by faith and my duty to my sacred office. Understand that I do not understand.’
‘Good-day, Father!’ said Ramón, suddenly rising.
‘Go with God, my son,’ said the Bishop, rising and lifting his fingers.
‘Adiós, Señor!’ said Cipriano, clicking his spurs, and putting his hand on his sword as he turned to the door.
‘Adiós, Señor General,’ said the Bishop, darting after them his eyes of old malice, which they could feel in their backs.
‘He will say nothing,’ said Cipriano, as he and Ramón went down the steps. ‘The old Jesuit, he only wants to keep his job and his power, and prevent the heart’s beating. I know them. All they treasure, even more than their money, is their centipede power over the frightened people; especially over the women.’
‘I didn’t know you hated them,’ laughed Ramón.
‘Waste no more breath on them, my dear one,’ said Cipriano. ‘Go forward, you can walk over broken snakes such as those.’
As they went on foot past the post-office square, where the modern scribes at little tables under the arches sat tapping out letters on their typewriters for the poor and illiterate, who waited with their few centavos to have their messages turned into florid Castilian, Ramón and Cipriano met with an almost startled respect.
‘Why talk to the Bishop? — he doesn’t exist any more. I hear his Knights of Cortés had a big dinner the other evening, and it is said — I don’t believe it — that they drank oaths in blood to have my life and yours. But I think the oaths of the Catholic Dames would frighten me more. Why, if a man stops to unfasten his trousers to make water, the Knights of Cortés run for their lives, thinking the pistol is pointed at them. Don’t think about them, man! Don’t try to conciliate them. They will only puff up and become insolent, thinking you are afraid of them. Six soldiers will trample down all that dirt,’ said the General.
It was the city, and the spirit of the city.
Cipriano had a suite in the big Palace on the Plaza de Armas.
‘If I marry,’ he said, as they passed into the stone patio, where soldiers stood at attention, ‘I shall take a house in the colony, to be more private.’
Cipriano in town was amusing. He seemed to exude pride and arrogant authority as he walked about. But his black eyes, glancing above his fine nose and that little goat beard, were not to be laughed at. They seemed to get everything, in the stab of a glance. A demoniacal little fellow.
CHAPTER XVIII
Auto da Fe
Ramón saw Carlota and his boys in the city, but it was a rather fruitless meeting. The elder boy was just uncomfortable in the presence of his father, but the younger Cyprian, who was delicate and very intelligent, had a rather lofty air of displeasure with his parent.
‘Do you know what they sing, papa?’ he said.
‘Not all the things they sing,’ said Ramón.
‘They sing — ’ the boy hesitated. Then, in his clear young voice, he piped up, to the tune of La Cucaracha:
‘Don Ramón don’t drink, don’t smoke.
Doña Carlota wished he would.
He’s going to wear the sky-blue cloak
That he’s stolen from the Mother of God.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Ramón, smiling. ‘Mine’s got a snake and a bird in the middle, and black zigzags and a red fringe. You’d better come and see it.’
‘No, papa! I don’t want to.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to be mixed up in this affair. It makes us all look ridiculous.’
‘But how do you think you look, anyhow, in your striped little sailor suit and your little saintly look? We’d better dress you as the Infant Jesus.’
‘No, papa! You are in bad taste. One doesn’t say those things.’
‘Now you’ll have to confess to a fib. You say one doesn’t say those things, when I, who am your father, said them only a moment ago, and you heard me.’
‘I mean good people don’t. Decent people.’
‘Now you’ll have to confess again, for calling your father indecent. — Terrible child!’
The child flushed, and tears rose to his eyes. There was silence for a while.
‘So you don’t want to come to Jamiltepec?’ said Ramón, to his boys.
‘Yes!’ said the elder boy, slowly. ‘I want to come and bathe in the lake, and have a boat. But — they say it is impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘They say you make yourself a peon, in your clothes.’ — The boy was shy.
‘They’re very nice clothes, you know. Nicer than those little breeches of yours.’
‘They say, also, that you pretend to be the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl.’
‘Not at all. I only pretend that the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl is coming back to the Mexicans.’
‘But, papa, it is not true.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it is impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘There never was any Quetzalcoatl, except idols.’
‘Is there any Jesus, except images?’
‘Yes, papa.’
‘Where?’
‘In heaven.’
‘Then in heaven there is also Quetzalcoatl. And what is in heaven is capable of coming back to earth. Don’t you believe me?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then go on unbelieving,’ said the father, laughing at them and rising to leave them.
‘It is very bad that they sing songs about you, and put mama in; like about Pancho Villa,’ said the younger boy. ‘It hurts me very much.’
‘Rub it with Vapour-rub, my pet,’ said Ramón. ‘Rub it with Vapour-rub, where it hurts you.’
‘What a real bad man you are, papa!’
‘What a real good child are you, my son! Isn’t that so?’
‘I don’t know, papa. I only know you are bad.’
‘Oh! Oh! Is that all they teach thee at thy American school?’
‘Next term,’ said Ciprianito, ‘I want to c
hange my name. I don’t want to be called Carrasco any more. When thou art in the newspapers, they will laugh at us.’
‘Oh! Oh! I am laughing at thee now, little frog! What name wilt thou choose, then? Espina, perhaps. Thou knowest Carrasco is a wild bush, on the moors in Spain, where we come from. Wilt thou be the little thorn on the bush? Call thyself Espina, thou art a sprig of the old tree. Entonces, adiós! Señor Espina Espinita!’
‘Adiós!’ said the boy abruptly, flushing with rage.
Ramón took a motor-car to Sayula, for there was a made road. But already the rains were washing it away. The car lurched and bumped in the great gaps. In one place a camión lay on its back, where it had overturned.
On the flat desert there were already small smears of water, and the pink cosmos flowers, and the yellow, were just sprouting their tufts of buds. The hills in the distance were going opaque, as leaves came out on the invisible trees and bushes. The earth was coming to life.
Ramón called in Sayula at Kate’s house. She was out, but the wild Concha came scouring across the beach, to fetch her. — ’There is Don Ramón! There is Don Ramón!’
Kate hurried home, with sand in her shoes.
She thought Ramón looked tired, and, in his black suit, sinister.
‘I didn’t expect you,’ she said.
‘I am on my way back from town.’
He sat very still, with that angry look on his creamy dark face, and he kept pushing back his black moustache from his closed, angry lips.
‘Did you see anybody in town?’ she asked.
‘I saw Don Cipriano — and Doña Carlota, and my boys!’
‘Oh, how nice for you! Are they quite well?’
‘In excellent health, I believe.’
She laughed suddenly.
‘You are still cross,’ she said. ‘Is it about the monkeys still?’
‘Señora,’ he said, leaning forward, so that his black hair dropped a little on his brow, ‘in monkeydom I don’t know who is prince. But in the kingdom of fools, I believe it is I.’
‘Why?’ she said.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 455
