CHAPTER 10
THE HERMIT
Ο N THE morning of July 14, a few months after Rose received
her golden ring, the bells of Lima sent their mournful music over the city once
again. The holy Franciscan missionary, Father Francis Solano, was dead.
Listening to the somber sound, Maria de Oliva muttered a
brief prayer. "We'd better go at once to the Franciscan convent, Marianna.
I'm sure there'll be miracles over there today. Get all our rosaries and
medals. We can touch them to the body of Father Francis and use them as
relics."
The Indian woman nodded. Both mistress and servant realized
the loss. Father Francis Solano was a real saint. Back in 1589, when he had
first come to the New World, he and his companions had been shipwrecked off the
coast of Colombia. For weeks the little group of survivors wandered through the
coastal forests without meeting a soul. Then a few of the men died from eating
poisonous plants, and despair seized the rest. Only Father Francis remained
calm. He insisted that his companions stay near the coast. Another boat would
arrive from Panama soon, he assured them, and carry them safely to Peru.
"I remember when he finally did reach Lima," said
Marianna slowly. "We were so disappointed when he insisted on leaving
almost at once. Ah, señora, he was already weak from hardship, yet he thought
nothing of walking fourteen hundred miles, across mountains and jungles, to his
Franciscan mission in Argentina!"
"And he made that trip twice, Marianna. Don't forget
that."
"Sí, señora-eleven years later, when his hard work
among the Indians was finished. Ah, but he was a good soul! I'll go now and
find the rosaries and medals."
Out in the garden, among her beloved trees and flowers, Rose
was thinking of Father Francis, too. She would never forget that December day
in the year 1604 when the brown-clad friar had preached his famous sermon in
the market place. She had been just eighteen then. Now, six years later, the
memory was still fresh.
"He told people to do penance for their sins," she
recalled. "He insisted that God would destroy Lima unless they ceased to
offend Him. That night there weren't enough priests in the city to hear
everyone who wanted to go to confession. Enemies were reconciled, stolen goods
restored to their owners, three thousand marriages properly ratified. Ah, dear
Father Francis, give me some of that zeal for souls which you so truly
possessed!"
Having offered her brief prayer, Rose turned down the path
that led to the back of the garden. There a familiar figure awaited her.
"Doña Maria! Why, I didn't expect to see you this
morning!"
Doña Maria de Usátegui, the wife of Don Gonzalo, gave Rose
an affectionate embrace. "My dear, I came in quietly by the side gate.
Your mother doesn't know I'm here yet. You see, I wanted to have a word with
you alone."
"The children aren't sick again?"
"No, no. They're fine. Rose, my dear, how would you
like to live with Don Gonzalo and me? Be a daughter of ours, so to speak?"
The young woman stared at her visitor in amazement. "I
don't understand..."
"Of course you don't. But my husband and I both feel
you'd be happier with us. Since your mother can't understand the type of life
you want, since she's never been happy that you joined the Third Order of Saint
Dominic..."
Rose laughed. No one would have guessed that Doña Maria's
words cut through her like a knife. They were so true! Maria de Oliva never
lost an opportunity to show she did not approve of Dominican Tertiaries.
"Mother just doesn't understand yet. She finds it hard
to believe that I'm still myself, underneath this white habit."
"Exactly. I've heard some of her criticisms and so has
my husband. Dear little friend, we've a large house and plenty of this world's
goods. Why don't you come and live with
us? The children would be so happy!"
For the rest of the day, and for many days thereafter, Rose
pondered this kindly offer of Doña Maria de Usátegui. In the end she decided to
decline. Even though Maria de Oliva frequently found fault with Dominican
Tertiary life, with the prayers and sacrifices to which her daughter was
dedicated, Rose knew such trials could be turned into great merit.
"Long ago I offered to pray and suffer for
others," she thought. "Dear Lord, don't let me run away from any pain
now. Let Mother's failure to understand only bring me closer to You. Let it
help to make me a saint."
The weeks passed, with their ceaseless round of ordinary
activities. Always clad in her white Tertiary habit and veil, Rose tended her
flowers and herbs, did her fine sewing and embroidery. She was completely
unaware of the rumors spreading throughout the city to the effect that she was
quite as holy as those other great servants of God, Archbishop Turribius,
Father Francis Solano, and Brother Martin de Porres. Hardly a day passed that
men and women did not come to beg her prayers, to ask her advice on one subject
or another, to touch her famous statue of the Child Jesus, which she called
"The Little Doctor."
"Rose is another Saint Catherine of Siena," they
told one another. "She fasts all the time. She sleeps only two hours a
night. She has given her whole self to the saving of sinners."
Eventually, however, some of all this did reach the young
woman's ears. Quickly she went in search of her mother with a strange request.
She wanted permission to be a hermit in the garden. If she cut herself off from
the world, if she appeared only rarely in the streets, perhaps people would
forget about her. But since the little oratory she had made as a child, far
back among the banana trees, was nearly in ruins, it would be necessary to
build another. And this second hermitage would have to be of more durable
material with a door that would lock.
Maria de Oliva refused to listen to any such suggestion. It
was bad enough to see her pretty daughter in a religious habit, to know that
she had thrown away forever the chance to have a husband and children. But that
she should live as a hermit in a little adobe house in the garden-never!
Four years passed. Rose did not give up hope of having her
little adobe house. Finally, overcome by the pleadings of Father Alonso
Velasquez, Doña Maria de Usátegui and Don Gonzalo, her mother gave in. Yes-Rose
could bury herself as a hermit, if Father Alonso thought this the proper thing
to do. She could stop having visitors. She could ruin her health by spending
hours in a damp mud hut.
"Mother, how can I ever thank you?" cried the
girl. "I've wanted it for so long!"
Maria sighed as she looked at her daughter, now twenty-eight
years of age. She was still pretty, but far too thin. The white Dominican habit
could not hide the fact that for years Rose had been following a very difficult
life.
"Sometimes I can't understand why you didn't enter a
convent, child. What other girl in Lima prays as much as you?"
Rose laughed, remembering that Sunday afternoon at Santo
Domingo when a mysterious power had kept her kneeling at the Rosary Shrine.
"It was never my vocation to be a nun, Mother. Please believe me. And
please pray that I serve God well as a hermit."
"I'll pray," said the mother sadly. "But just
remember this if it hadn't been that Father Alonso thought it the thing to do,
I'd never have given my permission. It's it's such an odd kind of life for a
young woman!"
For the next few days Rose and Ferdinand were very busy. A
site had been chosen for the hermitage, closer to the house this time, and not
cut off from the sunlight. An area five feet by four had been traced on the
ground, and near at hand was a supply of rough adobe bricks. They were light
brown in color and not too heavy to lift.
"Ferdinand, what would I do without you?" said
Rose as the two set to work on the proposed cell. "You've always been so
good to me, ever since we were small."
"It's no great trouble to build this little place,
Rose. The only thing that worries me is how you're going to be able to live in
such a tiny house. Couldn't we make it just a little bigger?"
The girl shook her head. "I want it small so there
won't be room for many visitors. And just one tiny window."
"What about the door? How do you want that?"
"I have special plans for the door. It's to be very
low, and just big enough for a person to crawl through on his hands and knees.
You see, the smaller and more uncomfortable we make this little cell, the fewer
people will want to come and see me."
The young man smiled. This was certainly true. Not many of
his mother's friends, for example, would want to crawl through a tiny door on
their knees.
"You tell me what you wish and that's the way it will
be, Rose. I want you to have happy memories of me when you come to live in this
little hermitage."
"Memories? You're not going away, Ferdinand?"
"Yes. I'm going to Chile next month."
"On business?"
"No, I plan to join the arıny. After all, I'm thirty
years old and it's time I settled down somewhere."
Rose checked her surprise and disappointment. This favorite
brother spoke the truth. Most men his age were already married, with homes and
families of their own. Yet she would miss him so much.
"I'll pray for you every day," she said gently.
"No matter where you go, my prayers will follow you. And I'm sure you'll
like living in Chile, Ferdinand. You'll marry a nice girl...and you'll have a
beautiful little daughter...."
"What are you talking about?" the man asked
incredulously.
"You're going to name the little girl after me. She'll
be called Mary Rose."
"Well," said Ferdinand, laughing heartily,
"you're right about one thing: if I ever do have a daughter, she'll have
your name. Who knows-maybe some day she'll even visit this little
hermitage!"
Rose smiled at him. Although he did not guess it, her
brother spoke the truth. Mary Rose would indeed come to Lima one day, a very
famous little girl.
After a few more days of hard work, the adobe hermitage was
at last finished. The younger Flores children had great fun crawling in and out
of the tiny door, and standing on a chair to look through the one small window
that opened onto the garden. Friends and neighbors, and even several priests,
came to view the adobe house which Rose and Ferdinand had made. A few even
measured the dimensions to make sure their eyes were not playing tricks.
"Five feet long, four feet wide, six feet high!"
declared Father Alonso Velasquez in amazement.
"Rose, it's far too small!"
"Father, it's large enough for Our Lord and me. I think
I'll be very happy here."
Doña Maria de Usátegui, who was also among the visitors
inspecting the hermitage, laid an affectionate hand on the younger woman's
shoulder.
"The invitation still stands," she whispered.
"My husband and 1 still want you to come and live with us. You'll let us
know if you change your mind?"
Rose nodded. Don Gonzalo and Doña Maria were such very good
friends. She knew they both worried about her health, about the life of
hardship to which she had dedicated herself.
"I won't forget the invitation," she smiled.
"Or your other kindnesses, either. Thank you so much for everything, Doña
Maria."
After she had begun to live in the little hermitage, Rose
continued to work at her sewing, her embroidery, the raising of flowers and
herbs. When night came, however, she shut herself in and gave herself over to
prayer. There, amid the silence of the darkened garden, she poured out her
heart in praise and petition.
Such actions were pleasing to God, and He flooded the new
hermit's soul with many graces. Frequently He appeared to her as a little
Child, encouraging her to continue with her difficult vocation. He taught her
she had nothing to fear as long as she put all her confidence in Him.
At such times Rose thought she would die of sheer happiness.
What a wonderful thing life is, she told herself. Any soul that has Sanctifying
Grace, no matter how weak the soul is, can be of use to its fellows. All that
is necessary is to think of God and His goodness. Then will come such an urge
to be like Him, to share in His truth and beauty, that the soul cannot help
exchanging its cowardice for courage. It begins to resemble God. And because of
that, it glows with a great love for other souls. It wants them to have
Sanctifying Grace and to love God, too. It wants them to share its happiness.
"It's like a beggar who finally becomes rich."
Rose would reflect. "When he is poor, he is afraid of other people. He has
a low opinion of himself, knowing he can never do anything great. But once he
becomes a rich man, everything is changed. His starved body becomes strong. He
realizes other people look up to him. And he finds real happiness in sharing
his wealth with them."
One summer afternoon Maria de Oliva went in search of her
daughter. The sun was warm and the garden bright with the flowers Rose tended
so well. But the woman's face as she made her way toward the little adobe
hermitage was hard with anger.
"Rose! Are you in there?"
There was no answer. Catching a glimpse of someone moving
among the fruit trees, Maria started off in that direction. Probably Rose was
gathering oranges for Marianna to take to market the next day.
"Rose! Are you deaf? Haven't you heard me calling
you?"
The girl set down a basket half full of luscious fruit.
"Did you want me, Mother?"
"I certainly did. Doña Isabel de Mejía came to see me.
She has told me something that's upset me dreadfully."
"Her mother's not sick again?"
"Of course not. I'm the one that's sick. Rose, is it
true you've told people there's going to be a convent of Dominican nuns in
Lima? That Doña Lucia de la Daga will be the first Prioress?"
A smile lit up the young woman's face. "Yes, Mother. It
will be called the Monastery of Santa Catalina, after Saint Catherine of
Siena."
Maria's voice was shrill. "Doña Lucia is a happily
married woman, with five lovely children! What business have you to spread the
rumor that she's going to be a nun?"
"But it's true, Mother. There will be a Monastery of
Santa Catalina. Doña Lucia will go there with her sister Clara. Father Luis de
Bilbao will say the first Mass...."
"So you're turning into a prophet, are you? What do you
know about the future? Are you losing your senses since you've shut yourself up
in that wretched hermitage?"
Rose lowered her eyes. How could she make her mother
understand that the news about Santa Catalina had been given to her in prayer?
That her beloved friend and patroness, Saint Catherine of Siena, had come in
person to tell her about the new monastery?
"I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't realize you'd be so upset
about what I told Doña Isabel."
"Why shouldn't I be upset? What's Doña Lucia going to
think of me? And her husband? Why, you've really said the good man is going to
die...and his five children, too. Otherwise how could Doña Lucia enter a
convent?"
Rose smiled faintly. "Please don't be cross, Mother.
Things really will happen as I've said."
"Stop!" cried Maria. "Soon you'll be telling
people that your own mother is going to found a convent. I won't have such
talk, Rose. It's too embarrassing!"
The girl looked down at the golden ring which Ferdinand had
obtained for her four years ago. There were tears in her eyes.
"You won't found a monastery, Mother, but some day
you'll enter one. Doña Lucia will give you the Dominican habit at Santa
Catalina. You'll be very happy there. And I promise you that when you're ready
to die, I'll come to get you myself."
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