There was once a fisherman named Pepe; he was very good, and very
poor. He never went out to fish without first kneeling down and asking
a blessing on his labours; he never lost his time in drinking-bouts;
he brought his children up to be as honest and industrious as himself;
yet nothing prospered with him. He toiled the livelong day, and
often far into the night, yet he could scarcely earn enough to keep
his family above want. If ever there was a storm, it was sure to be
Pepe's boat that would be swamped. And if ever there was a rich shoal
of fish came within his ordinary fishing-ground, it would be sure
to happen when he was ill, or his gear was out of order, or when,
for some reason, he could not avail himself of the blessing.
What was most remarkable was, that under all this misfortune Pepe was
always cheerful. As the beautiful Spanish proverb says, he was like
the sandal-wood, perfuming the axe which strikes it low [87]. He not
only never complained, and continued at his toil steadily day by day,
but he was always praising God for what He had given him--his wife,
his children, his humble hut, his strong arms. "Put your trust in God,
and your feet diligently along the road [88];" so he used to say,
and so he used to act.
One day he had gone out as usual, and, as often happened, had taken
nothing. It was no use going back with an empty bag; he persevered
another day, and another, though he had nothing but a loaf to live
on. The sun above was like a furnace, the sea below like a lake of
fire. Pepe crept under the shadow of his sails, and was so exhausted
with heat and hunger that he fell into a swoon.
He saw himself lying at the bottom of his boat, but not alone. There
was One lying there also, who slept too. His raiment glistened,
and a light of glory surrounded Him, which paled that of the blazing
sun. By and by the sun went down, and it seemed that night came on,
but He was still there; and the wind rose, and Pepe's little boat was
tossed and buffeted, and Pepe was ready to cry out with alarm. Then
he thought, "While He is here, no harm can come; I will keep His
slumber sacred." So he looked out on the fury of the storm, and
waited. Then that shining One arose and waved His hands abroad towards
the winds, and there came a sweet melody from His mouth, which said,
"Peace! peace!" Then suddenly all was still and bright again, and the
soft breeze echoed back the music of "Peace! peace!" Then Pepe, when
he saw what He had done, fell on his knees before Him, and said, "Lord,
as Thou hast done this, send me now a draft of fishes, that my net may
be full." Then the Bright One stretched out His hands over the sea;
and there rose out of the rippling waves great handsome fishes such
as Pepe had never seen the like. They were of the height of a man in
length, and their skin shone like silver interwoven with many colours,
and their fins of gold. Docile at His gesture, they rose gently over
the side of the boat, and laid them obedient at His feet. One by one,
on they came till--appalling sight!--the boat began to sink under
their priceless weight.
For one moment Pepe's heart almost fainted within him at seeing the
rich prize sink away again just as it was within grasp, and with it
his boat, his tackle, all that he had to call his own! But his eye
rested on the Bright One who stood there, and his faith and confidence
returned. He observed that some folds of His glistening mantle, as
it hung loosely from His shoulders, floated on the waves which were
now meeting over the place where he stood. Confident that it would
bear him up, Pepe stepped on to it, as on to dry land, while all his
earthly treasure sunk out of sight.
Then Pepe woke. The sun had nearly set; a light breeze was gently
carrying off the superfluous heat of the day; but his bark was
empty, no Bright One sat in it, no beautiful fish lay there. Pepe
listlessly looked over the side of his boat; the influence of his
dream was yet upon him, and he could not restrain a look after his
sunken prize. What was that? Something large and shining swam under
his boat, surely! Hastily Pepe detached a little lamp which always
burnt under a cross hung on the mast, and looked down into the clear
blue waters, when lo! as if attracted by the light, the shining fish
turned their small bright eyes towards it, as if they took the unwonted
light for the rising sun, and swam straight at it almost within arm's
length. Pepe was now at no loss what to do. Taking a large hook which
lay in the bottom of his boat, he lashed it firmly to a long spar, and
then hanging the lamp over the side of the boat, he prepared to seize
the finny prey with his improvised harpoon. The lamp attracted them as
before, and now came the struggle. Pepe was a small man, and the first
fish he tackled was a foot taller than himself and well-nigh pulled
him over the side of his boat. Pepe was glad enough to let him go,
even at the cost of his weapon, which the fish carried down into the
deep with him. Pepe was, as you know by now, one who never lost heart;
he pulled out his narvaja (or long-bladed knife with a cross-hilt),
and tied it to another long piece of wood. Pepe was gaining experience;
this time he selected a smaller antagonist, and great was his joy
when, after a brief encounter, he landed him safely in the bottom
of the boat. Pepe was not avaricious, more anxious to share the good
news with his family than to obtain a large haul, he only waited to
take one moderate-sized fish more, and then he was off to his home.
Great was the joy in the village next morning, as the news of the new
source of industry spread. Some were frightened, and said there must
be witchcraft in it; but when they saw the trade prosper, they were
glad enough to take it as the good gift of God, and from that time
to this the Tunny fishery has never failed to enrich the dwellers on
all the shores of the Mediterranean.
"WHERE ONE CAN DINE, TWO CAN DINE [89]."
In the days when our Lord walked on earth, it happened that one night
He and St. Peter found themselves far from any city or village, on a
bleak and desolate plain. Weary and footsore, it was with great delight
St. Peter descried at last a light from a woodman's cot. "Lord, let us
rest here, let us pass the night under this shelter," said St. Peter.
They knocked at the woodman's door; he was a good-hearted old man, and
he welcomed the belated travellers with no grudging greeting. He heaped
up the dry fagots and made the hut shine like a gilded palace with that
brilliant blaze which no wood throws out like that of the olive-root;
and such humble fare as he had he set before them without stint.
The bleak wind moaned without, through the lofty alcornóques
[90], and rattled the ill-fitting door. But presently, above the
moaning of the wind and the clatter of the planks, they heard a hand
knocking outside. The woodman opened, and was rather taken aback to
find two more wayfarers at the door. "Never mind," said St. Peter,
"it's only some of our people, it's all right, 'Where one can dine,
two can dine.'" A little embarrassed, the woodman scratched his
head, as he thought of the slenderness of his stores, but made
no opposition, and the strangers passed in. The wind moaned on,
and another knocking came. The woodman opened, and found two more
guests standing without. St. Peter, who had fancied he heard the
soft voice of St. John murmuring a favourite canticle as he passed,
rose to see who it was, and soon recognized the waving hair of gold
of the youngest Apostle. "All right," said St. Peter, "let them in,
they belong to our party too, 'Where one can dine, two can dine.'" The
woodman, more and more puzzled, stood by and let them pass. He had
hardly sat down when another knock was heard above the storm. With his
habitual readiness, the woodman opened, and found two more strangers
begging admittance. St. Peter, who seemed to have a natural aptitude
for the office of doorkeeper, once more encouraged him to let them in,
assuring him they all belonged to the same party; and after another
knock, the number of the Apostolic college was complete.
The woodman looked wistfully at the empty table. He was the most
hospitable of woodmen, and gave his last crumb without a grudge;
but he was aghast at the thought that for the thirteen guests who
had honoured his roof, there was not sufficient to help round; and
he slunk away quite ashamed at the apparent but unavoidable stint.
Then He who first came in with St. Peter, rose and gave thanks, then
broke the bread and passed it round, and called on the woodman to come
and take his place among them. With fear and trembling the woodman
sat down, and with fear and trembling he saw his few barley-loaves and
his few grapes and fruits pass round and round till all were filled,
and there remained over and above to them that had eaten a larger
provision than he had ever seen under his roof before; but he durst
not ask who was his guest, knowing it must be the Lord.
Then they lay down and slept, each wrapped in his travelling mantle,
and in the blaze of the olive-root fire. In the morning when they
rose to depart, the woodman, alarmed at what he had seen the night
before, durst not ask them whither they went, but let them depart
in silence. St. Peter, however, remained behind, and after thanking
him for his hospitality, told him to ask what boon he would, and he
would grant it. The woodman was a man of few wants, and after he had
thought a minute, he answered that he was content with his humble lot;
he did not want it changed. His only amusement was now and then a
game at cards, when the season of wood-felling or any other chance
brought an accession of companions to his hut for a few nights;
and it would be a pleasure if he might always win whenever he played.
St. Peter looked grave; he did not much like giving an encouragement to
card-playing; but then he considered the poor fellow's irreproachable
character, his life of privations, and moreover his own unconditioned
promise to grant his request, and finally, that each success, while
it would do no harm to the well-regulated old man, would serve as a
discouragement to all the other players; so he ended by giving his
consent, only reserving one condition, that he should never play for
stakes sufficiently high to injure his companions; and then hasted
on to join the rest of his party, who had made some way while he
was parleying.
"'Fortune is certainly for those to whom she comes,'" moralized the
woodman when he was left alone, "'and not for those who seek her
[91].' How many are there who would have given their ears for such
a chance as I have had to-day; and it is given to me, who, being
already gifted with content, want for nothing!"
Time passed on, and the woodman, being a just man, never abused the
favour he had received, which however served, by the satisfaction which
success always confers, to cheer his solitary life. At last the time
came when the measure of his days was full; and resigning his spirit to
the care of his Lord, it was carried by his angel to the realms above.
Now, all through his life it had rankled in his mind that he might
have made a better and less selfish use of the gift St. Peter had
bestowed on him, when now, for the first time, it occurred to him how
to apply it. Then he turned to his angel, and begged him to stop on
his way, at the bedside of the first poor dying man they passed whose
soul was most in danger of being lost. The angel, who descried some
charitable design in the request, bore him to a room in a great city
where an escribano [92] lay at the last gasp. The demon of avarice
sat on his pillow, straining to clutch the passing soul, while his
young son and a clergyman knelt beside him, entreating him to be
reconciled to God. "Caramba!" exclaimed the woodman, "surely, our
Lord died for all, without even excluding escribanos!" As the good
angel hovered over the bed, a gentle sleep fell on the dying man,
and the demon relaxed his watch.
"Come, now," said the woodman, "you can't do any thing while the man's
asleep, let's have a game at cards to wile away the time." "Agreed,"
said the demon, for cards being invented by his crew, he thought
himself safe to win; "but how shall we manage about the stakes? You
see you've had to leave your pocket behind you, so how will you
pay me?" "I'll stake you something better than money," replied the
woodman. "What say you to staking my soul, which is on its way to
glory, against this escribano's soul, of which at best you are only
three parts sure?" "All right," said the demon, who thought it one
of the best chances he had ever had.
The woodman let him cut and shuffle and play what tricks he liked
with the pack, secure of his success; and in less than half an hour
his triumph was secure. The demon could not believe his eyes, but
could not, either, deny his defeat; so, putting his tail between his
legs, he laid his ears back [93] and disappeared through the floor,
quite ashamed of himself.
While this was going on, the escribano had awoke from his refreshing
sleep; freed from the solicitations of the demon of avarice, he no
longer refused the ministrations of the minister of the Church, but
had expressed his contrition for the sins of the past, and was ready
to depart in peace with God and all the world.
When the woodman arrived at the gate of Paradise, accompanied by the
soul of the escribano, St. Peter called out, "Who goes there?" "I,
of the hut on the bleak moor," replied the woodman.
"Yes, you I know," replied St. Peter; "but you don't come alone--who
is that black soul with you?"
"No, Señor, I don't come alone, because I thought God loved to see
men in good fellowship. This poor soul is only black because, being
an escribano, some of his ink has stuck to him."
"There's no admittance here for escribanos," replied St. Peter,
"so creep in alone."
"Nay, Señor; but I said not so when you came to my hut on the bleak
moor and brought other twelve with you. Doesn't 'Where one can dine,
two can dine,' hold good here also?"
St. Peter could not say nay, so he turned his back while the woodman
took up the soul of the escribano on his shoulders and crept in under
the shade of the eternal groves.