There was an old man of Toledo who had one son, whom he brought up
in the fear of God. Now it happened that this old man had to go to
a distant town of Estramadura, to receive some money of a creditor,
and the creditor dying, his heirs disputed the debt, and drove the
old man to a lawsuit which kept him absent many years. When at last
the suit was just decided in his favour, the old man fell ill and
died. Meantime the son, growing uneasy at his father's prolonged
absence, arranged his affairs as well as he could, and prepared to take
the journey to see after him. Calling in his three clerks, Jacinto,
Gonzalo, and Diego, who were all men whom his father trusted, and
whom he therefore respected, he divided his property in three parts,
and to each he gave charge of one part, leaving it to each to do the
best he could for him, saying, "The wisdom of your grey hairs will
do better for me than any instructions my inexperience could give you."
"If the Lord bless it, it shall increase; and if He curse it, it shall
not prosper," answered Jacinto, the eldest; "behold I am nothing in
the matter;" and he shook his venerable head, and raised his eyes
to heaven.
"Whatever I have done for your father I will continue to do for you,"
said Gonzalo, the second in order, and hurried back to his papers as
if it was wrong to waste a moment in talking.
"I will endeavour that you shall have nothing to complain of,"
quietly replied Diego, the third.
The young man was pleased with what they said, and without further
loss of time set out on his journey.
The weather was fair, and his father's friends by the way received
him hospitably; but crossing the Sierra [48], a violent storm came
on, and he would soon have been drenched with rain. Right glad he
was to see, perched on the mountain-ledge, a hermit's cell, where he
readily found shelter. In the morning, when the sky was serene again,
he rose to take his leave; and as he stood on the threshold thanking
the hermit for his care of him, he could not forbear pausing to
admire the beauties around him. Far away stretched the plains below,
studded with smiling cities and watered by the mazy windings of the
rivers, and shaded by dark groves of ancient cork-trees; behind him
were rocky heights reaching to the sky, presenting every degree of
rich vegetation and solemn barrenness. But what attracted his sight
most of all was a luxuriant plantation of fig-trees, which made a
complete bower of the hermit's cell.
"How successful you are with your fig-trees!" said the traveller; "I
never saw so fine a show. You have three, one as fine as the other--it
is impossible to say which of them is most flourishing; and to judge by
the fruit you gave me, which doubtless is their produce, they are the
finest trees in Spain, and that is saying a great deal. I must add too,
after your liberality with them, that you put to shame the proverb,--
"En tiempo de higos
No hay amigos [49]."
"For what you say of the proverb, son," replied the hermit, "I have
no merit, for it is the very essence of my rule of life to call
nothing my own, according to our Lord's counsel. These figs are
the gift of God, to me, or to you, or to whomsoever is here to need
them. But for the rest, you judge according to the measure of the
inconsiderateness of your years. Nevertheless, you seem to me a good
youth, and I will therefore show you something which may be of use to
you in your dealings with the world. Know then that but one of these
fig-trees is really what it seems; the other two are worthless. That
is, worthless," he added, "as bearers of fruit, for there is nothing
that God makes but has its worth, and even these trees which bear no
fruit are useful to give shade, and for other purposes besides."
"You surprise me," said the young man; "I never saw trees of more
equal promise!"
"Nevertheless, it is as I say; and if the season of figs were
not just over, according to our Lord's saying, by their fruit you
should know them, or, as you say in the world, "al freir, lo vereis
[50]." Meantime, learn, my son, not to judge of men and things by
their appearance, but wait and see what their fruit is like."
The sun was now beginning to make way above the horizon, and, fearing
to be overtaken by the heat, the young man was obliged to set out on
his journey without further parley than promising to visit the hermit
on his return.
Great was his grief, when he arrived at the end of his journey, to
find his good father had been so suddenly called away, and instead of
being clasped to his bosom, to find the last earthly communication
he could ever receive from him was a scrap of paper, on which, at
intervals of his death agony, he had convulsively written down a few
directions to guide him in entering into possession of his worldly
goods, mingled with counsels to him to continue to direct all his
dealings according to the fear of God.
This sudden death had thrown matters into some confusion, and it took
a considerable time to set all straight again; it was some ten or
eleven months before the young merchant had to re-cross the Sierra
in a homeward direction.
It was a brilliant summer evening when he came upon the hermit's
cell again. The old man was sitting making his meditation before
the door. Occupied with grief and care, as he had been during his
absence, the bereaved son had forgotten all about the fig-trees;
but, on looking around, he saw that something was changed, and soon
had a clear demonstration of what the hermit had told him. One noble
tree was laden with the ripe green and purple fruit; the soft, downy
skins seeming ready to burst with the rich and luscious burden within,
while the broad leaves spread out their hands and shaded them from
the too great heat, and fanned them gently when the day was sultry.
The second tree was covered with luxuriant leaves as before, but not
a single ripe fig was on it--there were a few young green beginnings,
but too small and sickly to have a chance of ripening that season.
The third tree was in lamentable plight; its attenuated climbers
clung by habit to the rock, but the sap and life and energy were gone,
and it seemed only fit to be cut down.
"Well, father, I see you were right as to the figs," said the young
man, candidly. "There is only one of them that is a good tree after
all--but it is wonderful how well favoured they looked last year!"
"Learn, my son, the counsel of the aged and the words of the wise,"
replied the hermit; "for as it is with trees, even so it is with
men. There are many who seem to you alike honest and worthy to
be esteemed, while their inner life is as different as was the
fruit-bearing principle of these trees."
"But, father, will not the good be known by their good deeds and
maxims, and the bad by their evil lives and counsels?"
"Even so, my son, but the difficulty is to discern which are good and
which evil. This is not so easy as you seem to think; for instance,
you see two men both apparently pious and charitable, while the one who
appears most so, very possibly only gives his money to the poor that
he may stand well with the world, that the poor may look up to him,
and say, 'There goes one who is like a king among us;' the other,
whose liberality you noticed less, drops his hardly-spared coin
noiselessly into the capillo [51], and sallies forth perhaps in dead
of night to carry his alms to those who would blush to receive such
assistance by day. One man appears to you calm and placid because
he is of a phlegmatic nature, and has no effort to make in order to
appear equable and ever patient; while another, whom you judge to be
hasty and passionate, may be all the while struggling to conquer a
hot and violent temperament which requires the courage of a hero to
keep it within bounds."
"I see your moral, father," replied the young man; "and I have no
doubt I often judge of men as I judged your fig-trees."
"That one," continued the hermit, pointing to the one whose fruit
was even then affording a delicious meal to the birds, for the hermit
called nothing his own, and the birds of heaven were welcome to share
his stock, "that one was always a good and fruitful tree, and its
praise is among its people, for you will find many a village about
here which boasts a graft from the hermit's fig. The second one, which
presented so fair a show, has something amiss which it hitherto has
passed my skill to find out--though I have one remedy more to try,
which may recover it. And the third had a worm at the root which
destroyed its vital power."
The young man passed on his way next day, and, as he journeyed, the
figs of which the good hermit had given him ample provision put him
in mind of his parable, and set him musing on its application. These
musings weaving themselves in with his anticipations of the condition
of his affairs at home, he began to consider whether the three
clerks, to whom he had entrusted his property, were in any way like
the fig-trees, and whether Providence had not sent him this lesson
to be his guide in his future conduct.
Possessed with this idea, he resolved to put them to the test. The
sun and air of the mountains had dyed his skin; sorrow had marked his
face with lines of care and tinged his hair with grey. By means of a
false beard and a travelling merchant's dress he reckoned he could
be safe from recognition, and as a stranger learn their respective
worth from their own lips.
Equipped in his disguise he presented himself at his own house,
and found all three in their place, with every evidence of diligent
application. So he opened the terms of his pretended business to
them, and found them all ready to negotiate with him, each in his
degree--each conducted his matter with every token of due shrewdness
and integrity.
It had been part of his plan to tell them the news of their master's
death, and try them by watching the effect of this intelligence upon
them, but when he saw all so well-ordered he judged there was no
need for further trial, and so contented himself with resuming his
own attire and returning in his own person to the house.
The clerks greeted him with a joyful welcome, and received the news of
his father's death with becoming expressions of sorrow, and the young
man congratulated himself on having such trusty stewards of his goods.
After he had been back a day or two, he requested them to prepare
for him the account of what they had done since he left, so that he
might know how his affairs stood, and once more assume the direction
of them. The proposal received a ready assent, and a day was fixed
for going into the matter. But when the appointed day came, what
was his astonishment to find only Diego in his place? His accounts
were ready and all in good order; he had administered faithfully the
portion of property entrusted to him, and handed it back increased
by the efforts of his prudence and skill.
From Gonzalo he found a letter informing him that he had had the
misfortune to be unlucky in his speculations with his property, and had
lost the whole of it, consequently he had no account to render. Losing
patience at this attempt at deceit, the young man had him brought
before him, and asked him how he dared tell him so, when he knew that
only so many days before he had been negotiating with a merchant he
knew, and he named the name he had assumed in his disguise. Gonzalo
was not at all disconcerted: "Oh, that business was done with my own
money; though I was unlucky with yours, fate would have it that I
should be very successful with my own, and out of my own earnings I
have created a capital which I have multiplied an hundredfold."
When the young man heard this unblushing statement, he was filled
with indignation, and insisted on taking him before the judge. But
it was all to no purpose, Gonzalo had managed his fraud so cleverly
that it could not be proved against him; he had to be let go scotfree.
As for Jacinto, he never showed himself at all, nor left any
explanation. He had remained up to the hour, trading with the benefit
of his master's name and capital, but the moment there had been talk
of giving up accounts he had gathered up all that was in his charge,
and fled with it out of the country.
More grieved by the faithlessness of those he had trusted than by
the loss of his gold, the young man shut himself into his chamber,
to muse upon what had befallen him, and upon the uncertainty both of
friendship and riches. When he reflected on the temptations which money
had offered to Gonzalo and Jacinto, he was appalled at the thought of
those which might be in store for him, if he continued in the pursuit
of business. He thought of the peaceful hermit, whose warning parable
had just received such a striking illustration. He thought of his
placid content with the weather--such as God sends it--to warm him,
and the fruits of the earth--such as God gives them--to nourish
him. He thought of him far removed from contentions and greed of
gain, and sharing his frugal meal with the stranger, the wayfarer,
and the birds of heaven.
When he came down from his chamber, he called Diego to him, and
commended him for his faithfulness and diligence. "And," said he,
"I now give you full possession of all that you have so justly
administered. For me, I have chosen a life free from care, where I
shall have no use for money."
But when Diego heard it, he said, "Nay, but I will go with thee. To
save my master's goods for his son was my work on earth; now that is
fulfilled, no desire have I to continue amid its weariness and perils."
So they left the money to found an hospital where poor orphan children
might be taken in and taught the way that is right. And they went
into the Sierra, and built them huts and planted them fig-trees,
and passed their time in holy meditation and in praising God.