THE morning was gray and I sat by the sea near Palos in a gray mood. I
was Jayme de Marchena, and that was a good, _old Christian_ name. But
my grandmother was Jewess, and in corners they said that she never truly
recanted, and I had been much with her as a child. She was dead, but
still they talked of her. Jayme de Marchena, looking back from the
hillside of forty-six, saw some service done for the Queen and the folk.
This thing and that thing. Not demanding trumpets, but serviceable. It
would be neither counted nor weighed beside and against that which Don
Pedro and the Dominican found to say. What they found to say they made,
not found. They took clay of misrepresentation, and in the field
of falsehood sat them down, and consulting the parchment of malice,
proceeded to create. But false as was all they set up, the time would
cry it true.
It was reasonable that I should find the day gray.
Study and study and study, year on year, and at last image a great
thing, just under the rim of the mind’s ocean, sending up for those who
will look streamers above horizon, streamers of colored and wonderful
light! Study and reason and with awe and delight take light from above.
Dream of good news for one and all, of life given depth and brought into
music, dream of giving the given, never holding it back, which would be
avarice and betraying! Write, and give men and women to read what you
have written, and believe--poor Deluded!--that they also feel inner
warmth and light and rejoice.
Oh, gray the sea and gray the shore!
But some did feel it.
The Dominican, when it fell into his hands, called it perdition.
A Jewess for grandmother, and Don Pedro for enemy. And now the
Dominican--the Dominicans!
The Queen and the King made edict against the Jews, and there sat the
Inquisition.
I was--I am--Christian. It is a wide and deep and high word. When you
ask, “What is it--Christian?” then must each of us answer as it is given
to him to answer. I and thou--and the True, the Universal Christ give us
light!
To-day all Andalusia, all Castile and all Spain to me seemed gray, and
gray the utter Ocean that stretched no man knew where. The gray was the
gray of fetters and of ashes.
The tide made, and as the waves came nearer, eating the sand before
me, they uttered a low crying. _In danger--danger--in danger, Jayme de
Marchena!_
I had been in danger before. Who is not often and always in danger, in
life? But this was a danger to daunt.
Mine were no powerful friends. I had only that which was within me. I
was only son of only son, and my parents and grandparents were dead,
and my distant kindred cold, seeing naught of good in so much study and
thinking of that old, dark, beautiful, questionable one, my grandmother.
I had indeed a remote kinsman, head of a convent in this neighborhood,
and he was a wise man and a kindly. But not he either could do aught
here!
All the Jews to be banished, and Don Pedro with a steady forefinger,
“That man--take him, too! Who does not know that his grandmother was
Jewess, and that he lived with her and drank poison?” But the Dominican,
“No! The Holy Office will take him. You have but to read--only you must
not read--what he has written to see why!”
Gray Ocean, stretching endlessly and now coming close, were it not well
if I drowned myself this gray morning while I can choose the death I
shall die? Now the great murmur sang _Well_, and now it sang Not well.
Low cliff and heaped sand and a solitary bird wide-winging toward the
mountains of Portugal, and the Ocean gray-blue and salt! The salt savor
entered me, and an inner zest came forward and said No, to being
craven. In banishment certainly, in the House of the Inquisition more
doubtfully, the immortal man might yet find market from which to buy! If
the mind could surmount, the eternal quest need not be interrupted--even
there!
Blue Ocean sang to me.
A vision--it came to me at times, vision--set itself in air. I saw
A People who persecuted neither Jew nor thinker. It rose one Figure,
formed of an infinite number of small figures, but all their edges met
in one glow. The figure stood upon the sea and held apart the clouds,
and was free and fair and mighty, and was man and woman melted together,
and it took all colors and made of them a sun for its brow. I did not
know when it would live, but I knew that it should live. Perhaps it was
the whole world.
It vanished, leaving sky and ocean and Andalusia. But great visions
leave great peace. After it, for this day, it seemed not worth while to
grieve and miserably to forebode. Through the hours that I lay there by
the sea, airs from that land or that earth blew about me and faint songs
visited my ears, and the gray day was only gray like a dove’s breast.
Jayme de Marchena stayed by the lonely sea because that seemed the
safest place to stay. At hand was the small port of Palos that might
not know what was breeding in Seville, and going thither at nightfall I
found lodging and supper in a still corner where all night I heard the
Tinto flowing by.
I had wandered to Palos because of the Franciscan convent of Santa Maria
de la Rabida and my very distant kins-man, Fray Juan Perez. The day
after the gray day by the shore I walked half a league of sandy road
and came to convent gate. The porter let me in, and I waited in a little
court with doves about me and a swinging bell above until the brother
whom he had called returned and took me to Prior’s room. At first Fray
Juan Perez was stiff and cold, but by littles this changed and he
became a good man, large-minded and with a sense for kindred. Clearly he
thought that I should not have had a Jewish grandmother, nor have lived
with her from my third to my tenth birthday, and most clearly that I
should not have written that which I had written. But his God was an
energetic, enterprising, kindly Prince, rather bold himself and tolerant
of heathen. Fray Juan Perez even intimated a doubt if God wanted the
Inquisition. “But that’s going rather far!” he said hastily and sat
drumming the table and pursing his lips. Presently he brought out, “But
you know I can’t do anything!”
I did know it. What could he do? I suppose I had had a half-hope of
something. I knew not what. Without a hope I would not have come to
La Rabida. But it was maimed from the first, and now it died. I made a
gesture of relinquishment. “No, I suppose you cannot--”
He said after a moment that he was glad to see that I had let my beard
grow and was very plainly dressed, though I had never been elaborate
there, and especially was he glad that I was come to Palos not as Jayme
de Marchena, but under a plain and simple name, Juan Lepe, to wit. His
advice was to flee from the wrath to come. He would not say flee from
the Holy Office--that would be heinous!--but he would say absent myself,
abscond, be banished, Jayme de Marchena by Jayme de Marchena. There were
barques in Palos and rude seamen who asked no question when gold just
enough, and never more than enough, was shown. He hesitated a moment and
then asked if I had funds. If not--
I thanked him and said that I had made provision.
“Then,” said he, “go to Barbary, Don Jayme! An intelligent and prudent
man may prosper at Ercilla or at Fez. If you must study, study there.”
“You also study,” I said.
“In fair trodden highways--never in thick forest and mere fog!” he
answered. “Now if you were like one who has been here and is now before
Granada, at Santa Fe, sent for thither by the Queen! That one hath
indeed studied to benefit Spain--Spain, Christendom, and the world!”
I asked who was that great one, but before he could tell me came
interruption. A visitor entered, a strong-lipped, bold-eyed man named
Martin Pinzon. I was to meet him again and often, but at this time I did
not know that. Fray Juan Perez evidently desiring that I should go, I
thought it right to oblige him who would have done me kindness had he
known how. I went without intimate word of parting and after only a
casual stare from Martin Pinzon.
But without, my kinsman came after me. “I want to say, Don Jayme, that
if I am asked for testimony I shall hold to it that you are as good
Christian as any--”
It was kinsman’s part and all that truly I could have hoped for, and
I told him so. About us was quiet, vacant cloister, and we parted more
warmly than we had done within.
The white convent of La Rabida is set on a headland among vineyards and
pine trees. It regards the ocean and, afar, the mountains of Portugal,
and below it runs a small river, going out to sea through sands with the
Tinto and the Odiel. Again the day was gray and the pine trees sighing.
The porter let me out at gate.
I walked back toward Palos through the sandy ways. I did not wish to go
to Africa.
It is my belief that that larger Self whom they will call protecting
Saint or heavenly Guardian takes hand in affairs oftener than we think!
Leaving the Palos road, I went to the sea as I had done yesterday and
again sat under heaped sand with about me a sere grass through which the
wind whined. At first it whined and then it sang in a thin, outlandish
voice. Sitting thus, I might have looked toward Africa, but I knew now
that I was not going to Africa. Often, perhaps, in the unremembered past
I had been in Africa; often, doubtless, in ages to come its soil
would be under my foot, but now I was not going there! To-day I looked
westward over River-Ocean, unknown to our fathers and unknown to
ourselves. It was unknown as the future of the world.
Ocean piled before me. From where I lay it seemed to run uphill to one
pale line, nor blue nor white, set beneath the solid gray. Over that
hilltop, what? Only other hills and plains, water, endlessly water,
until the waves, so much mightier than waves of that blue sea we knew
best, should beat at last against Asia shore! So high, so deep, so vast,
so real, yet so empty-seeming save for strange dangers! No sails over
the hilltop; no sails in all that Vast save close at hand where mariners
held to the skirts of Mother. Europe. Ocean vast, Ocean black, Ocean
unknown. Yet there, too, life and the knowing of life ran somehow
continuous.
It wiled me from my smaller self. How had we all suffered, we the whole
earth! But we were moving, we the world with none left out, moving
toward That which held worlds, which was conscious above worlds. Long
the journey, long the adventure, but it was not worth while fearing, it
was not worth while whining! I was not alone Jayme de Marchena, nor Juan
Lepe, nor this name nor that nor the other.
There was now a great space of quiet in my mind. Suddenly formed there
the face and figure of Don Enrique de Cerda whose life I had had
the good hap to save. He was far away with the Queen and King who
beleaguered Granada. I had not seen him for ten years. A moment before
he had rested among the host of figures in the unevenly lighted land of
memory. Now he stood forth plainly and seemed to smile.
I took the leading. With the inner eye I have seen lines of light like
subtle shining cords running between persons. Such a thread stretched
now between me and Enrique de Cerda. I determined to make my way, as
Juan Lepe, through the mountains and over the plain of Granada to Santa
Fe.