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The lad entered excitedly. “Your canoe, Don Rosendo––as I started out on the lake to fish I saw it, far in the distance. I brought it in. There was neither pole nor paddle in it. And it was half full of water. It must have drifted all night. Did it break away from its mooring, think you?”
Rosendo looked at Josè. The latter replied quickly: “That is the most reasonable supposition, Juan. But Rosendo is very grateful to you for securing it again.”
When the lad had gone, Rosendo sat with bowed head, deeply perplexed.
“The pole and paddle, Padre, were left on the island. I took them out when we landed. Diego pushed off without them. He––the boat––it must have drifted long. But––did he land? Or––”
He stopped and scratched his head. “Padre,” he said, looking up suddenly with an expression of awe upon his face, “do you suppose––do you think that the Virgin––that she––made him fall from the canoe into the lake––and that acaymanate him?Ca-ram-ba!”
Josè did not vouchsafe a reply. But his heart leaped with a great hope. Rosendo, wrapped in profound meditation, wandered back to his house, his head bent, and his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
CHAPTER 29
The rainy season dragged its reeking length through the Simití valley with fearful deliberation. Josè thought that he should never again see the sun. The lake steamed like a cauldron. Great clouds of heavy vapor rolled incessantly upward from the dripping jungle. The rain fell in cloud-bursts, and the narrow streets of the old town ran like streams in a freshet.
Then, one day, Rosendo abruptly announced, “Padre, the rains are breaking. The dry season is at hand. And the little Carmen is fourteen years old to-day.”
It gave the priest a shock. He had been six years in Simití! And Carmen was no longer a child. Youth ripens quickly into maturity in these tropic lands. The past year had sped like a meteor across an evening sky, leaving a train of mingled light and darkness. Of Diego’s fate Josè had learned nothing. Ricardo and his companion had disappeared without causing even a ripple of comment in Simití. Don Mario remained quiet for many weeks. But he often eyed Josè and Rosendo malignantly275through the wooden grill at his window, and once he ordered Fernando to stop Rosendo and ply him with many and pointed questions. The old man was noncommittal, but he left a dark suspicion, which was transmitted to the receptive mind of the Alcalde. Acting-Bishop Wenceslas likewise was growing apprehensive as the weeks went by, and both Josè and Don Mario were the recipients of letters of inquiry from him regarding the whereabouts of the priest Diego. In the course of time came other letters from Cartagena, and at length an order for a most scrutinizing search to be made for the Bishop’s confidential agent.
It was of no avail. Rosendo’s oft-repeated testimony revealed nothing. The citizens of Simití had not seen the man. The Alcalde had nothing but his suspicions to offer. And these might have fallen harmlessly upon the acting-Bishop’s well occupied thought, had it not been for the complicating influence of certain other events. The first of these was the exhaustion of the gold which Josè and Carmen had discovered in the old church. The other was the outbreak of the religio-political revolution which Diego had predicted some six years before, and which, in these latter days, Don Jorge, on his infrequent journeys through Simití had repeatedly announced as inevitable and imminent. Their combined effect was such as to wrest Carmen away from Josè, and to set in a new direction the currents of their lives.
For some time past Josè had patched with growing anxiety the shrinking of his gold supply, and had striven to lessen the monthly contributions to Cartagena, meanwhile trying to know that the need now looming daily larger before him would be met. He had not voiced his apprehension to Carmen. But he and Rosendo had discussed the situation long and earnestly, and had at length resolved that the latter should again return to Guamocó to wash the Tiguí sands.
The old man sighed, but he uttered no protest. Yet each day Josè thought he grew quieter. And each day, too, he seemed to become more tender of his sad-faced daughter, Ana, and of the little grandson who had come into his humble home only a few weeks before. He delayed his preparations for specious reasons which Josè knew cost him much effort to invent. He clung to Carmen. He told his rosary often before the church altar, and with tears in his eyes. And at night he would come to Josè and beg him to read from the Bible and explain what he thought the Saviour had really meant to convey to the humble fishermen of Galilee.
Josè’s heart was wrung. But at last the day arrived when he had nothing to send to Cartagena beyond the mere pittance276which the poor members of his little parish contributed. But this he sent as usual. The next month he did the same. Then came a letter from Wenceslas, requesting an explanation. And then it was that Josè realized that in his excess of zeal he had fallen into his own trap. For, having established the custom of remitting a certain amount to the Bishop each month, he must not resent now the implication of dishonesty when the remittances fell off, or ceased altogether. He took the letter to Rosendo. “Bien, Padre,” said the latter slowly, “the time has come. I set out for Guamocó at dawn.”
In the days that followed, Josè could frame no satisfactory reply to Wenceslas, and so the latter wrote to the Alcalde. Don Mario eagerly seized the proffered opportunity to ingratiate himself into ecclesiastical favor. Rosendo was again in the hills, he wrote, and with supplies not purchased from him. Nor had he been given even a hint of Rosendo’s mission, whether it be to search again for La Libertad, or not. There could be no doubt, he explained in great detail, of Josè’s connivance with Rosendo, and of his unauthorized conduct in the matter of educating the girl, Carmen, who, he made no doubt, was the daughter of Padre Diego––now, alas! probably cold in death at the violent hands of the girl’s foster-father, and with the priest Josè’s full approbation. The letter cost the portly Don Mario many a day of arduous labor; but it brought its reward in another inquiry from Cartagena, and this time a request for specific details regarding Carmen.
Don Mario bestrode the clouds. He dropped his customary well-oiled manner, and carried his head with the air of a conqueror. His thick lips became regnant, imperious. He treated his compatriots with supercilious disdain. And to Josè he would scarce vouchsafe even a cold nod as they passed in the street. Again he penned a long missive to Cartagena, in which he dilated at wearisome length upon the extraordinary beauty of the girl, as well as her unusual mental qualities. He urged immediate action, and suggested that Carmen be sent to the convent in Mompox.
Wenceslas mused long over the Alcalde’s letters. Many times he smiled as he read. Then he sent for a young clerical agent of the See, who was starting on a mission to Bogotá, and requested that he stop off a day at Badillo and go to Simití to report on conditions in that parish. Incidentally, also, to gather what data he might as to the family of one Rosendo Ariza.
In due course of time the agent made his report. The parish of Simití stood in need of a newCura, he said. And the girl––he found no words to describe or explain her. She must be seen.277The Church had need of prompt action, however, to secure her. To that end, he advised her immediate removal to Cartagena.
Again Wenceslas deliberated. Aside from the girl, to whom he found his thought reverting oftener than he could wish in that particular hour of stress, his interest in Simití did not extend beyond its possibilities as a further contributor to the funds he was so greatly needing for the furtherance of his complex political plans. As to the Alcalde––here was a possibility of another sort. That fellow might become useful. He should be cultivated. And at the same time warned against precipitate action, lest he scatter Rosendo’s family into flight, and the graceful bird now dwelling in the rude nest escape the sharp talons awaiting her.
He called for his secretary. “Send a message to Francisco, our Legate, who is now in Bogotá. Bid him on his return journey stop again at Simití. We require a full report on the character of the Alcalde of that town.”
Meantime, Josè did not permit his mental torture to interfere with Carmen’s education. For six years now that had progressed steadily. And the results? Wonderful, he thought––and yet not wholly attributable to his peculiar mode of tutelage. For, after all, his work had been little more than the holding of her mind unwarped, that her instinctive sense of logic might reach those truthful conclusions which it was bound to attain if guided safely past the tortuous shifts of human speculation and undemonstrable theory. To his great joy, these six years had confirmed a belief which he had held ever since the troublous days of his youth, namely, that, as a recent writer has said, “adolescent understanding is along straight lines, and leaps where the adult can only laboriously creep.” There had been no awful hold of early teaching to loosen and throw off; there were no old landmarks in her mind to remove; no tenacious, clinging effect of early associations to neutralize. And, perhaps most important of all, the child had seemed to enter the world utterly devoid of fear, and with a congenital faith, amounting to absolute knowledge, in the immanence of an omnipotent God of love. This, added to her eagerness and mental receptivity, had made his task one of constant rejoicing in the realization of his most extravagant dreams for her.
As a linguist, Carmen had become accomplished. She spoke English fluently. And it was only a matter of practice to give her a similar grasp of French, Italian, and German. As for other instruction, such knowledge of the outside world as he had deemed wise to give her in these six years had been seized upon with avidity and as quickly assimilated. But he often278speculated curiously––sometimes dubiously––upon the great surprises in store for her should she ever leave her native village. And yet, as often as such thought recurred to him he would try to choke it back, to bar his mind against it, lest the pull at his heartstrings snap them asunder.
Often as he watched her expanding so rapidly into womanhood and exhibiting such graces of manner, such amiability of disposition, such selfless regard for others, combined with a physical beauty such as he thought he had never before gazed upon, a great yearning would clutch his soul, and a lump would rise in his throat. And when, as was so often the case, her arms flew impulsively about his neck and she whispered words of tender endearment in his ear, a fierce determination would seize him, and he would clutch her to himself with such vehemence as to make her gasp for breath. That she might marry he knew to be a possibility. But the idea pierced his soul as with a sword, and he thought that to see her in the arms of another, even the man of her choice, must excite him to murder. One day, shortly after her fourteenth birthday, she came to him and, perching herself as was her wont upon his knees, and twining her arms about his neck, said, with traces of embarrassment, “Padre dear, Juan––he asked me to-day to marry him.”
Josè caught his breath. His ears rang. She––marry a peon of Simití! To be sure, Juan had often reminded him of the request he had made for her hand long ago. But Josè had not considered the likelihood of the lad’s taking his question directly to her. And the girl––
“And what did you reply?” he asked thickly.
“Padre dear––I told him that––” She stopped abruptly.
“Well,chiquita; you told him––what?” His voice trembled.
She flushed, still hesitating. He held her back from him and looked squarely into her wide eyes.
“You told him,chiquita––”
“That––well, Padre dear, I told him that––that I might never marry.”
Josè sighed. “And do you think, little girl, that you will always hold to that resolution?”
“Yes, Padre, unless––”
“Well,chiquita, unless––”
“Unless you marry, too, Padre,” she said, dropping her eyes.
“Unless I marry! I––a priest! But––what has that to do with it, girl?”
“Well––oh, Padre dear––can’t you see? For then I would marry––” She buried her face in his shoulder.
“Yes,chiquita,” he said, dully wondering.
Her arms tightened about his neck. “You,” she murmured.
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It was the first expression of the kind that had ever come from her lips. Josè’s heart thumped violently. The Goddess of Fortune had suddenly thrown her most precious jewel into his lap. Joy welled up in flood tides from unknown depths within. His eyes swam. Then––he remembered. And thick night fell upon his soul.
Minutes passed, and the two sat very quiet. Then Carmen raised her head. “Padre,” she whispered, “you don’t say anything. I know you love me. And you will not always be a priest––not always,” shaking her beautiful curls with suggestive emphasis.
Why did she say that? He wondered vaguely. The people called her anhada. He sometimes thought they had reason to. And then he knew that she never moved except in response to a beckoning hand that still, after all these years, remained invisible to him.
“Chiquita,” he said in low response, “I fear––I fear that can never be. And even if––ah,chiquita, I am so much older than you, little girl––almost seventeen years!”
“You do not want to marry me, even if you could, Padre?” she queried, looking wistfully into his eyes, while her own grew moist.
He clutched her to him again. “Carmen!” he cried wildly, “you little know––you little know! But––child, we must not talk of these things! Wait––wait!”
“But, Padre dear,” she pleaded, “just say that youdolove me that way––just say it––your little girl wants to hear it.”
God above! She, pleading that he would say he loved her! His head sank upon his breast. He silently prayed that his tortured soul might burst and let his wasted life ebb into oblivion while his pent-up misery poured out.
“Carmen!” he cried with the despair of the lost. “I love you––love you––love you! Nay, child, I adore you! God! That I might hold you thus forever!”
She reached up quickly and kissed him. “Some day, Padre dear,” she murmured softly, “you will stop thinking that two and two are seven. Then everything good will come to you.”
She sank back in his arms and nestled close to him, as if she longed to enter his empty heart and fill the great void with her measureless love.
“And, Padre dear,” she whispered, “your little girl will wait for you––yes, she will wait.”
It was some days later that Rosendo, after returning almost empty handed from the hills, came to Josè and said, “Padre, I have sold myhaciendato Don Luis. I need the money to purchase280supplies and to get the papers through for some denouncements which I have made in Guamocó. I knew that Don Mario would put through no papers for me, and so I have asked Lázaro to make the transaction and to deliver the titles to me when the final papers arrive. I have a blank here to be filled out with the name and description of a mineral property. I––what would be a good name for a mine, Padre?”
“Why do you ask that, Rosendo?” queried Josè in surprise.
“Because, Padre, I want a foreign name––one not known, here. Give me an American one. Think hard.”
Josè reflected. “There is a city, a great city, that I have often heard about, up in the States,” he said finally.
He took up the little atlas which he had received long since with other books from abroad. “Look,” he said, “it is called Chicago. Call your property the Chicago mine, Rosendo. It is a name unknown down here, and there can no confusion arise because of it.”
“Caramba!” Rosendo muttered, trying to twist his tongue around the word, “it is certain that no one else will use that name in Guamocó! But that makes my title still more secure, no?”
“But, Rosendo,” said Josè, when the full significance of the old man’s announcement had finally penetrated, “you have sold yourfinca! And to acquire title to property that you can never sell or work! Why, man! do you realize what you have done? You are impoverished! What will you do now? And what about Carmen? for we have nothing. And the sword that hangs above us may fall any day!”
“Bien, Padre, it is for her sake that I have done it. Say no more. It will work out in some way. I go back to-morrow. But, if the titles should come from Cartagena during my absence––and, Padre, if anything should happen to me––for the love of the Virgin do not let them out of your hands! They are for her.”
Yet Rosendo departed not on the morrow. He remained to mingle his tears with those of the sorrowing Ana. For the woman, whose heart had been lighter since the arrival of her babe, had come to the priest that day to have the child christened. And so, before the sun might fill theplazawith its ardent midday heat, Rosendo and his family repaired to the church. There before the altar Josè baptised the little one and gave it his own name, thus triumphantly ushering the pagan babe into the Christian Catholic world. The child cried at the touch of the baptismal water.
“Now,” commented Rosendo, “the devil has gone out of him, driven out by the holy water.”
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But, as Josè leaned over the babe and looked into its dark eyes, his hand stopped, and his heart stood still. He raised his head and bent a look of inquiry upon the mother. She returned the look with one that mutely voiced a stifled fear and confirmed his own. “Padre!” she whispered hoarsely. “What is it? Quick!”
He took a candle from the altar and passed it before the child’s eyes.
“Padre! He sees!Santa Virgen!Do not tell me––Dios mío!” The mother’s voice rose to a wail, as she snatched her babe away.
A loud exclamation escaped Rosendo. Doña Maria stood mute; but Josè as he looked at her divined her thought and read therein a full knowledge of the awful fact that she had never voiced to the heart-broken mother.
“Padre!” cried the perplexed Rosendo. “Maria!” turning in appeal to his wife. “Speak, some one!Santa Virgen, speak! Ana, what ails the child?”
Josè turned his head aside. Carmen crowded close to the weeping Ana. Doña Maria took Rosendo’s arm.
“The babe, Rosendo,” she said quietly, “was born––blind.”
CHAPTER 30
The “revolutionist” of Latin America is generally only the disgruntled politician. His revolution is seldom more than a violent squabble among greedy spoilsmen for control of the loose-jointed administration. But the great Mosquera Revolution which burst into flame in New Granada in 1861 was fed with fuel of a different nature. It demonstrated, if demonstration were necessary, that the Treaty of Westphalia did not writefinisto the history of bloodshed in the name of Christ; that it had but banked the fires of religious animosity, until the furnace should be transferred from the Old World to the New, where the breath of liberty would again fan them into vigorous activity.
The Mosquera War tore asunder Church and State; but left unhappy Colombia prone and bleeding. It externalized a mighty protest of enlightenment against Rome’s dictates in temporal affairs. And, as has before happened when that irresistible potentiality, the people, has been stirred into action, the Church was disestablished, its property confiscated, and its meddling, parasitical clergy disenfranchised.
But then, too, as almost invariably occurs when the masses282find that they have parted with cherished prejudices and effete customs, and have adopted ideas so radical as to lift them a degree higher in the scale of progress, they wavered. The Church was being humiliated. Their religion was under contempt. The holy sacrament of marriage was debased to a civil ceremony. Education was endangered by taking it out of the hands of the pious clergy. Texts unauthorized by Holy Church were being adopted. Where would this radical modernism end? The alarm spread, fanned by the watchful agents of Rome. Revolt after revolt occurred. And twenty years of incessant internecine warfare followed.
Fear and prejudice triumphed. A new Constitution was framed. And when it was seen that Roman Catholicism was therein again declared to be the national religion of the Republic of Colombia; when it was noted that the clergy, obedient to a foreign master, were to be readmitted to participation in government affairs; when it was understood that a national press-censorship was to be established, dominated by Holy Church; and when, in view of this, the great religio-political opponent was seen laying down her weapons and extending her arms in dubious benediction over the exhausted people, the masses yielded––and there was great rejoicing on the banks of the Tiber over the prodigal’s return.
When Wenceslas Ortiz was placed in temporary control of the See of Cartagena he shrewdly urged the Church party to make at least a pretense of disbanding as a political organization. The provinces of Cundinamarca and Panamá were again in a state of ferment. Congress, sitting in Bogotá, had before it for consideration a measure vesting in the President the power to interfere in certain states or provinces whenever, in his opinion, the conservation of public order necessitated such action. That this measure would be passed, Wenceslas could not be sure. But that, once adopted, it would precipitate the unhappy country again into a sanguinary war, he thought he knew to a certainty. He had faced this same question six years before, when a similar measure was before Congress. But then, with a strong Church party, and believing the passage of the law to be certain, he had yielded to the counsel of hot-headed leaders in Cartagena, and approved the inauguration of hostilities.
The result had been afiasco. Congress dropped the measure like a hot plate. The demands of the “revolutionists” were quickly met by the federal government. Thecausae bellievaporated. And Wenceslas retired in chagrin to the solitude of his study, to bite his nails and wonder dubiously if his party were strong enough to insure his appointment to the See of Cartagena in the event of the then aged occupant’s demise.
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It was this hasty judgment of Wenceslas and his political associates which had delayed further consideration of the objectionable measure for six years. But the interim had seen his party enormously strengthened, himself in control of the See, and his preparations completed for turning the revolt, whenever it should come, to his own great advantage. He had succeeded in holding the Church party aloof from actual participation in politics during the present crisis. And he was now keeping it in constant readiness to throw its tremendous influence to whichever side should offer the greatest inducements.
Time passed. The measure dragged. Congress dallied; and then prepared to adjourn. Wenceslas received a code message from his agent in Bogotá that the measure would be laid on the table. At the same time came a sharp prod from New York. The funds had been provided to finance the impending revolution. The concessions to be granted were satisfactory. Why the delay? Had the Church party exaggerated its influence upon Congress?
Wenceslas stormed aloud. “Santa Virgen!” he muttered, as he paced angrily back and forth in his study. “A curse upon Congress! A curse––”
He stopped still. In the midst of his imprecations an idea occurred to him. He went to hisescritorioand drew out the Legate’s recent report. “Ah,” he mused, “that pig-headed Alcalde. And the good little Josè. They may serve.Bien, we shall see.”
Then he summoned his secretary and dictated telegrams to Bogotá and New York, and a long letter to the Alcalde of Simití. These finished, he called a young acolyte in waiting.
“Take a message to the Governor,” he commanded. “Say to His Excellency that I shall, call upon him at three this afternoon, to discuss matters of gravest import.” Dismissing his secretary, he leaned back in his chair and dropped into a profound revery.
Shortly before the hour which he had set for conference with the Departmental Governor, Wenceslas rose and went to hisescritorio, from which he took a paper-bound book.
“H’m,” he commented aloud. “‘Confessions of a Roman Catholic Priest.’Bien, I was correct in my surmise that I should some day have use for this little volume. Poor, misguided Rincón! But––Bien, I think it will do––I think it will do.”
A smile played over his handsome, imperious face. Then he snapped the book shut and took up his hat. At the door he hesitated a moment, with his hand on the knob.
“If the Alcalde were not such a fool, it would be impossible,”284he mused. “But––the combination––the isolation of Simití––the imbecility of Don Mario––the predicament of our little Josè––Hombre! it is a rare situation, and it will work. Itmustwork––cielo! With the pig-headed Alcalde seizing government arms to suppress the Church party as represented by the foolish Josè, and with the President sending federal troops to quell the disturbance, the anticlericals will rise in a body throughout the country. Then Congress will hastily pass the measure to support the President, the Church party will swing into line with the Government––and the revolution will be on. Simití provides the setting and the fuel; I, the torch. I will cable again to Ames when I leave the Governor.” He swung the door open and went briskly out.
“Padre, I am crushed.”
It was Rosendo who spoke. He and Josè were sitting out in the gathering dusk before the parish house on the evening of the day that Ana’s babe had been christened. The old man’s head was sunk upon his breast, and he rocked back and forth groaning aloud.
“We must be brave, Rosendo,” returned Josè tenderly. “We have gone through much, you and I, since I came to Simití. But––we have believed it to be in a good cause. Shall we surrender now?”
“But, Padre, after it all, to have her babe come into the world blind! God above! The poor child––the poor child! Padre, it is the last thing that I can endure. My ambition is gone. I cannot return now to Guamocó. Let come what may, I am done.”
“Rosendo,” said Josè, drawing his chair closer to the old man, and laying a hand on his, “we have fought long and hard. But, if I mistake not, the greatest struggle is yet to come. The greatest demand upon your strength and mine is still to be made.”
Rosendo raised his head. “What mean you, Padre?”
Josè spoke low and earnestly. “This: Juan returned from Bodega Central this evening. He reports that several large boxes are there, consigned to Don Mario, and bearing the government stamp. He found one of them slightly broken, and he peered within. What think you it contained? Rifles!”
Rosendo stared at the priest dumbly. Josè went on:
“I did not intend to tell you this until morning. But it is right that you should hear it now, that your courage may rise in the face of danger. What think you? The federal government is sending arms to Simití to establish a base here at the outlet of the Guamocó region, and well hidden from the Magdalena285river. This town is to become a military depot, unless I mistake the signs. And danger no longer threatens, but is at our door.”
“Ca-ram-ba!” Rosendo rose slowly and drew himself up to his full height. “War!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.
“There is no question about it, Rosendo,” replied Josè gravely. “And I have no reason to doubt the truth of Diego’s prophecy, that this time it will be one to be reckoned with.”
“Hombre! And Carmen?”
“Take her into the hills, Rosendo. Start to-morrow.”
“But you?”
Josè’s thought was dwelling on his last talk with the girl. Again he felt her soft arms about his neck, and her warm breath against his cheek. He felt her kiss, and heard again her words, the sweetest, he thought, that had ever echoed in mortal ears. And then he thought of his mother, of his office, of the thousand obstacles that loomed huge and insurmountable between him and Carmen. He passed a hand across his brow and sighed heavily.
“I remain here, Rosendo. I am weary, unutterably weary. I welcome, not only the opportunity for service which this war may bring, but likewise the hope of––death. If I could but know that she were safe––”
“Caramba! Think you she would leave you here, Padre? No!” Did Rosendo’s words convey aught to the priest that he did not already know?
“But––Rosendo, I shall not go,” he returned bitterly.
“Then neither do we, Padre,” replied Rosendo, sitting again. “The child, Carmen––she––Padre, she loves you with a love that is not of the earth.”
Morning found the old man’s conviction still unshaken. Josè sought the quiet of his cottage to reflect. But his meditations were interrupted by Carmen.
“Padre,” she began, sparkling like a mountain rill in the sunlight as she seated herself before him. “Pepito––Anita’s babe––he is not blind, you know.” Her head bobbed vigorously, as was her wont when she sought to give emphasis to her dramatic statements.
Josè smiled, and resigned himself to the inevitable. He had been expecting this.
“And, Padre, have you been thankful that he isn’t?”
“Isn’t what, child?”
“Blind. You know, Padre Diego thought he couldn’t see the reality. He looked always at his bad thoughts. And so the not seeing, and the seeing of only bad things, were286both––externalized, and the babe came to us without sight. That is, without what the human mind calls sight. And now,” she went on excitedly, “you and I have justgotto know that it isn’t so! The babe sees. God’s children all see. And I have thanked Him all morning that this is so, and that you and I see it. Don’t we, Padre dear? Yes, we do.”
“Well––I suppose so,” replied Josè abstractedly, his thought still occupied with the danger that hung over the little town.
“Suppose so! Youknowso, Padre! There isn’t any ‘suppose’ about it! Now look: what makes sight? The eye? No. The eye is madebythe sight. The human mind just gets it twisted about. It thinks that sight depends upon the optic nerve, and upon the fleshly eye. But it isn’t so. It is the sight that externalizes the ‘meaty’ eye. You see, the sight is within, not without. It is mental. God is all-seeing; and so, sight is eternal. Don’t you see? Of course you do!”
Josè did not reply. Yes, he did see. But what he saw was the beautiful, animated girl before him. And the thought that he must some day be separated from her was eating his heart like a canker.
“Well, then,” went on the girl, without waiting for his reply, “if a mortal’s mental concept of sight is poor, why, he will manifest poor eyes. If the thought-concept were right, the manifestation would be right. Wouldn’t it?”
Josè suddenly returned to the subject under discussion. “By that I suppose you mean,chiquita, that the babe’s thought, or concept, of sight was all wrong, and so he came into the world blind.”
“Not at all, Padre,” she quickly replied. “The babe had nothing to do with it, except to seem to manifest the wrong thoughts of its father, or mother, or both. Or perhaps it manifests just simply bad thoughts, without the bad thoughts belonging to anybody. For, you know, we none of us reallyhavesuch thoughts. And such thoughts don’t really exist. They are just a part of the one big lie about God.”
“Then the babe sees?”
“Surely; the real babe is a child of God, and sees.”
“But the human babe doesn’t see,” he retorted.
“But,” she replied, “what you call the human babe is only your mental concept of the babe. And you see that mental concept as a blind one. Nowun-seeit. Look at it in the right way. See only God’s child, with perfect sight. And, Padre, after a whileyou will see that babe seeing things, just as we do!
“Don’t you understand?” she exclaimed, as he sat looking fixedly at her. “Don’t you see that if you have the right thought about the babe, and hold to it, and put out every thought that287says it is blind, why, your right thought will be externalized in a mental concept of a babe that sees? Don’t you know that that is exactly what Jesus did? He didn’t affect the real man at all. But he did change the mental concepts which we call human beings. And we can do the same, if we only know it, and follow him, and spiritualize our thought, as he did, by putting out and keeping out every thought that we know does not come from God, and that is, therefore, only a part of the lie about Him. Here is a case where we have got to quit thinking that two and two are seven. And I have done it. It is God’s business to make our concepts right. And He has done so––long since. And we will see these, right concepts if we will put out the wrong ones!”
“Well?” he queried lamely, wholly at a loss for any other answer.
“Well, Padre, I am not a bit afraid. I don’t see a blind babe at all, because there just can’t be any. And neither do you. The babe sees because God sees.”
“In other words, you don’t intend to allow yourself to be deceived by appearances?” he suggested.
“That is just it, Padre!” she exclaimed. “Blindness is only an appearance. But it doesn’t appear to God, It appears only to the human mind––which isn’t any mind at all! And the appearance can be made to disappear, if we know the truth and stick to it. For any appearance of a human body is a mental concept, that’s all.”
“A thing of thought, then?” he said.
“Yes, a thing ofwrongthought. But all wrong thought is subject to God’s right thought. We’ve proved that, haven’t we, lots of times? Well, this wrong thought about a babe that is blind can be changed––made to disappear––just as any lie can be made to disappear when we know the truth. And so you and I are not going to be afraid, are we? I told Anita this morning not to worry, but to justknowall the time that her babe did see, no matter what the appearance was. And she smiled at me, Padre, she smiled. And I know that she trusts, and is going to work with you and me.”
Work with her! Heavens! had he done aught of late but work against her by his constant harboring of fears, of doubts, and his distrust of spiritual power?
“Padre,” she resumed, “I want you to promise me that every day you will thank God that the babe really sees. And that you will turn right on every thought of blindness and know that it is a part of the lie about God, and put it right out of your mind. Will you?”
“But––child––if my mind tells me that the babe is blind, how can I––”
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“I don’t care what your mind tells you about the babe! You are to listen to what God tells you, not your human mind! Does God tell you that the babe is blind? Does He?” she repeated, as the man hesitated.
“Why, no,chiquita, He––”
“Listen, Padre,” she interrupted again, drawing closer to him. “Is God good, or bad, or both?”
“He is good,chiquita, all good.”
“Infinite good, then, no?”
“Yes.”
“And we have long since proved by actual reasoning and demonstration that He is mind, and so infinite mind, no?”
“It must be conceded, Carmen.”
“Well, an infinite mind has all power. And an infinite, all-powerful mind that is all good could not possibly create anything bad, or sick, or discordant––now could He?”
“Utterly impossible, little girl.”
“The Bible says so. Our reasoning tells us so. But––the five physical senses tell us differently. Don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And yet, we know that the five physical sensesdo not tell us truth! We know that when the human mind thinks it is receiving reports about things through the five physical senses it is doing nothing more than looking at its own thoughts. Now isn’t that so?”
“It certainly seems so, little one.”
“The thoughts of an infinite and good mind must be like that mind, all good, no? Well, then, thoughts of discord, disease, blindness, and death––do they come from the infinite, good mind? No!”
“Well,chiquita mía, that is just the sticking point. I can see all the rest. But the mighty question is, wheredothose thoughts come from? I am quite as ready as you to admit that discord, sin, evil, death, and all the whole list of human ills and woes come from these bad thoughts held in the human mind and so externalized. I believe that the human man really sees, feels, hears, smells, and tastes these thoughts––that the functioning of the physical senses is wholly mental––takes place in mind, in thought only. That is, that the human mind thinks it sees, feels, hears; but that the whole process is mental, and that it is but regarding its thoughts, instead of actually regarding and cognizing objects outside of itself. Do you follow me?”
“Of course,” she replied with animation. “Isn’t that just what I am trying to tell you?”
“But––and here is the great obstacle––we differentiate between289good and bad thoughts. We agree that a fountain can not send forth sweet and bitter waters at the same time. And so, good and bad thoughts do not come from the infinite mind that we call God. But where do the others originate? Answer that,chiquita, and my problems will all be solved.”
She looked at him in perplexity for some time. It seemed to her that she never would understand him. But, with a little sigh of resignation, she replied:
“Padre, you answered that question yourself, long ago. You worked it all out three or four years ago. But––you haven’t stuck to it. You let the false testimony of the physical senses mesmerize you again. Instead of sticking to the thoughts that you knew to be good, and holding to them, in spite of the pelting you got from the others, you have looked first at the good, and then at the bad, and then believed them all to be real, and all to be powerful. And so you got miserably mixed up. And the result is that you don’t know where you stand. Do you? Or, you think you don’t; for that thought, too, is a bad one, and has no power at all, excepting the power that you seem willing––and glad––to give it.”
He winced under the poignant rebuke. He knew in his heart that she was right. He had not clung to the good, despite the roars of Satan. He had not “resisted unto blood.” Far from it; he had fallen, almost invariably, at the first shower of the adversary’s darts. And now, was he not trying, desperately, to show her that Ana’s babe was blind, hopelessly so? Was he not fighting on evil’s side, and vigorously, though with shame suffusing his face, waving aloft the banner of error?
“The trouble with you, Padre,” the girl resumed, after some moments of reflection, “is that you––you see everything––well, you see everything as a person, or a thing.”
“You mean that I always associate thought with personality?” he suggested.
“That’s it! But you have got to learn to deal with thoughts and ideas by themselves, apart from any person or thing. You have got to learn to deal with facts and their opposites entirely apart from places, or things, or people. Now if I say that Life is eternal, I have stated a mental thing. That is the fact. Its opposite, that is, the opposite of Life, is death. One opposes the other. But God is Life. Is God also death? He can’t be. Life is the fact. Then death must be the illusion. That being so, Life is the reality, and death is the unreality. Very well, what makes death seem real? It is just because the false thought of death comes into the human mind, and is held there as a reality, as something that hasgotto happen. And that strong belief becomes externalized in what mortals call death.290Don’t you see? Is there a person in the whole world who doesn’t think that some time he has got to die? No, not one! But now suppose every person held the belief that death was an illusion, a part of the big lie about God, just as Jesus said it was. Well, wouldn’t we get rid of death in a hurry? I should think so! And is there a person in the whole world who wouldn’t say that Anita’s babe was blind? No, not one! They would look at the human thought of blindness, instead of God’s real idea of sight, and so they would make and keep the babe blind. Don’t you understand me, Padre dear? Don’t you? I know you do, for you really see as God sees!”
She stopped for breath. Her eyes glistened, and her whole body seemed to radiate the light of knowledge divine. Then she went hurriedly on:
“Padre, everything is mental. You know that, for you told me so, long since. Well, that being so, we have got to face the truth that every mental fact seems to have an opposite, or a lot of opposites, also seemingly mental. The opposite of a fact is an illusion. The opposite of truth is a lie. Well, God is the great fact. Infinite mind is the infinite fact. The so-called opposite of this infinite fact is the human mind, the many so-called minds of mankind––a kind of man.But everything is still mental. Now, an illusion, or a lie, does notreallyexist. If I tell you that two and two are seven, that lie does not exist. Is it in what we call my mind, or yours? No. Even if you say you believe it, that doesn’t make it real. Nor does it show that it has real existence in your mind. Not a bit of it! But––if you hold it, and cling to it––allow it to stay with you and influence you––why, Padre dear, everything in your whole life will be changed!
“Let me take your pencil––and a piece of paper. Look now,” drawing a line down through the paper. “On one side, Padre, is the infinite mind, God, and all His thoughts and ideas, all good, perfect and eternal. On the other side is the lie about it all. That is still mental; but it is illusion, falsity. It includes all sin, all sickness, all murder, all evil, accidents, loss, failure, bad ambitions, and death. These are all parts of the big lie about God––His unreal opposite. These are the so-called thoughts that come to the human mind. Where do they come from? From nowhere. The human mind looks at them, tastes them, feels them, holds them; and then they become its beliefs. After a while the human mind looks at nothing but these beliefs. It believes them to be real. And, finally, it comes to believe that God made them and sent them to His children. Isn’t it awful, Padre! And aren’t you glad that you know about it? And aren’t you going to learn how to keep the good on one side of that line and the illusion on the other?”