At the first faint flush of morn Rosendo departed for the hills. The
emerald coronels of the giant _ceibas_ on the far lake verge burned
softly with a ruddy glow. From the water's dimpling surface downy
vapors rose languidly in delicate tints and drew slowly out in
nebulous bands across the dawn sky. The smiling softness of the
velvety hills beckoned him, and the pungent odor of moist earth
dilated his nostrils. He laughed aloud as the joyousness of youth
surged again through his veins. The village still slumbered, and no
one saw him as he smote his great chest and strode to the boat, where
Juan had disposed his outfit and was waiting to pole him across. Only
the faithful Doña Maria had softly called a final "_adioscito_" to him
when he left his house. A half hour later, when the dugout poked its
blunt nose into the ooze of the opposite shore, he leaped out and
hurriedly divested himself of his clothing. Then he lifted his chair
with its supplies to his shoulders, and Juan strapped it securely to
his back, drawing the heavy band tightly across his forehead. With a
farewell wave of his hand to the lad, the man turned and plunged into
the Guamocó trail, and was quickly lost in the dense thicket. Six days
later, if no accident befell, he would reach his destination, the
singing waters of the crystal Tiguí.
His heart leaped as he strode, though none knew better than he what
hardships those six days held for him--days of plunging through
fever-laden bogs; staggering in withering heat across open savannas;
now scaling the slippery slopes of great mountains; now swimming the
chill waters of rushing streams; making his bed where night overtook
him, among the softly pattering forest denizens and the swarming
insect life of the dripping woods. His black skin glistened with
perspiration and the heavy dew wiped from the close-growing bush. With
one hand he leaned upon a young sapling cut for a staff. With the
other he incessantly swung his _machete_ to clear the dim trail. His
eyes were held fixed to the ground, to escape tripping over low vines,
and to avoid contact with crawling creatures of the jungle, whose
sting, inflicted without provocation, might so easily prove fatal. His
active mind sported the while among the fresh thoughts stimulated by.
his journey, though back of all, as through a veil, the vision of
Carmen rose like the pillar of cloud which guided the wandering
Israel. Toil and danger fled its presence; and from it radiated a warm
glow which suffused his soul with light.
When Josè arose that morning he was still puzzling over the logical
conclusions drawn from his premise of the evening before, and trying
to reconcile them with common sense and prevalent belief. In a way, he
seemed to be an explorer, carving a path to hidden wonders. Doña Maria
greeted him at the breakfast table with the simple announcement of
Rosendo's early departure. No sign of sorrow ruffled her quiet and
dignified demeanor. Nor did Carmen, who bounded into his arms, fresh
as a new-blown rose, manifest the slightest indication of anxiety
regarding Rosendo's welfare. Josè might not divine the thoughts which
the woman's placid exterior concealed. But for the child, he well knew
that her problem had been met and solved, and that she had laid it
aside with a trust in immanent good which he did not believe all the
worldly argument of pedant or philosopher could shake.
"Now to business once more!" cried Josè joyously, the meal finished.
"Just a look-in at the church, to get the boys started; and then
to devote the day to you, señorita!" The child laughed at the
appellation.
Returning from the church some moments later, Josè found Carmen
bending over the fireplace, struggling to remove a heavy kettle from
the hot stones.
"Careful, child!" he cried in apprehension, hurrying to her
assistance. "You will burn your fingers, or hurt yourself!"
"Not unless you make me, Padre," Carmen quickly replied, rising and
confronting the priest with a demeanor whose every element spelled
rebuke.
"Well, I certainly shall not _make_ you!" the man exclaimed in
surprise.
"No, Padre. God will not let you. He does not burn or hurt people."
"Certainly not! But--"
"And nothing else can, for He is everywhere--isn't He?"
"Well--perhaps so," the priest retorted impatiently. "But somehow
people get burnt and hurt just the same, and it is well to be
careful."
The child studied him for a moment. Then she said quietly--
"I guess people burn and hurt themselves because they are afraid--don't
they? And I am not afraid."
She tossed her brown curls as if in defiance of the thought of fear.
Yet Josè somehow felt that she never really defied evil, but rather
met its suggestions with a firm conviction of its impotence in the
presence of immanent good. He checked the impulse to further
conversation. Bidding the child come to him as soon as possible to
begin the day's work, he went back to his own abode to reflect.
He had previously said that this child should be brought up to know no
evil. And yet, was he not suggesting evil to her at every turn? Did
not his insistence upon the likelihood of hurting or burning herself
emphasize his own stalwart belief in evil as an immanent power and
contingency? Was he thus always to maintain a house divided against
itself? But some day she _must_ know, whether by instruction or dire
experience, that evil is a fact to be reckoned with! And as her
protector, it was his duty to--But he had not the heart to shatter
such beautiful confidence!
Then he fell to wondering how long that pure faith could endure.
Certainly not long if she were subjected to the sort of instruction
which the children of this world receive. But was it not his duty with
proper tutelage to make it last as long as possible? Was it not even
now so firmly grounded that it never could be shaken?
He dwelt on the fact that nearly all children at some period early in
life commune with their concept of God. He had, himself. As a very
young child he had even felt himself on such terms of familiarity with
God that he could not sleep without first bidding Him good night. As a
young child, too, he had known no evil. Nor do any children, until
their perfect confidence in good is chilled by the false instruction
of parents and teachers, who parade evil before them in all its
hideous garb.
Alas! for the baneful belief that years bring wisdom. How pitiable,
and how cruelly detrimental to the child are an ignorant parent's
assumptions of superiority! How tremendous the responsibility that now
lay at his own door! Yet no greater than that which lies at the door
of every parent throughout the world.
It is sadly true, he reflected, that children are educated almost
entirely along material lines. Even in the imparting of religious
instruction, the spiritual is so tainted with materialism, and its
concomitants of fear and limitation, that the preponderance of faith
is always on the material side. Josè had believed that as he had grown
older in years he had lost faith. Far from it! The quantity of his
faith remained fixed; but the quality had changed, through education,
from faith in good to faith in evil. And though trained as a priest of
God, in reality he had been taught wholly to distrust spiritual
power.
But how could a parent rely on spiritual power to save a child about
to fall into the fire? Must not children be warned, and taught to
protect themselves from accident and disaster, as far as may be?
True--yet, what causes accident and disaster? Has the parent's thought
aught to do with it? Has the world's thought? Can it be traced to the
universal acceptance of evil as a power, real and operative? Does
mankind's woeful lack of faith in good manifest itself in accident,
sickness, and death?
A cry roused Josè from his revery. It came from back of the house.
Hastening to the rear door he saw Doña Maria standing petrified,
looking in wide-eyed horror toward the lake. Josè followed her gaze,
and his blood froze. Carmen had been sent to meet the canoe that daily
supplied fresh water to the village from the Juncal river, which
flowed into the lake at the far north end. It had not yet arrived, and
she had sat down beside her jar at the water's edge, and was lost in
dreams as she looked out over the shimmering expanse. A huge crocodile
which had been lying in the shadow of a shale ledge had marked the
child, and was steadily creeping up behind her. The reptile was but a
few feet from her when Doña Maria, wondering at her delay, had gone to
the rear door and witnessed her peril.
In a flash Josè recalled the tale related to him but a few days before
by Fidel Avila, who was working in the church.
"Padre," Fidel had said, "as soon as the church is ready I shall
offer a candle to good _Santa Catalina_ for protecting my sister."
"How was that, my son?" inquired Josè.
"She protected her from a crocodile a year ago, Padre. The girl had
gone to the lake to get water to wash our clothes, and as she sat in
the stern of the boat dipping the water, a great crocodile rose and
seized her arm. I heard her scream, and I was saying the rosary at the
time. And so I prayed to _Santa Catalina_ not to let the crocodile eat
her, and she didn't."
"Then your sister was saved?"
"The crocodile pulled her under the water, Padre, and she was drowned.
But he did not eat her; and we got her body and buried her here in the
cemetery. We were very grateful."
_Sancta simplicitas!_ That such childish credulity might be turned
into proper channels!
But there were times when fish were scarce in the lake. Then the
crocodiles became bold; and many babes had been seized and dragged off
by them, never to return. The fishing this season had been very poor.
And more than one fisherman had asked Josè to invoke the Virgin in his
behalf.
Nearer crept the monster toward the unsuspecting girl. Suddenly she
turned and looked squarely at it. She might almost have touched it
with her hand. For Josè it was one of those crises that "crowd
eternity into an hour." The child and the reptile might have been
painted against that wondrous tropic background. The great brute stood
bolt upright on its squat legs, its hideous jaws partly open. The girl
made no motion, but seemed to hold it with her steady gaze. Then--the
creature dropped; its jaws snapped shut; and it scampered into the
water.
"God above!" cried Josè, as he rushed to the girl and clasped her in
his arms. "Forgive me if I ever doubted the miracles of Jesus!"
Doña Maria turned and quietly resumed her work; but the man was
completely unstrung.
"What is it, Padre?" Carmen asked in unfeigned surprise. "I am not
afraid of crocodiles--are you? You couldn't be, if you knew that God
is everywhere."
"But don't you know, child, that crocodiles have carried off--"
He checked himself. No--he would not say it. He had had his lesson.
"What, Padre?"
"Nothing--nothing--I forgot--that's all. A--a--come, let us begin our
lessons now."
But his mind refused to be held to the work. Finally he had to ask--he
could not help it.
"Carmen, what did you do? Did you talk to the crocodile?"
"Why, no, Padre--crocodiles don't talk!" And throwing her little head
back she laughed heartily at the absurd idea.
"But--you did something! What was it? Tell me."
"No, Padre, I did nothing," the child persisted.
He saw he must reach her thought in another way. "Why did the
crocodile come up to you, Carmen?" he asked.
"Why--I guess because it loved me--I don't know."
"And did you love it as you sat looking at it?"
"Of course, Padre. We have just got to love _everything_. Don't you
know that?"
"Y--yes--that is so, _chiquita_. I--I just thought I would ask you.
Now let us begin the arithmetic lesson."
The child loved the hideous saurian! And "perfect love casteth out
fear." What turned the monster from the girl and drove it into the
lake? Love, again, before which evil falls in sheer impotence? Had she
worked a miracle? Certainly not! Had God interposed in her behalf?
Again, no. "He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty." And would divine Love
always protect her? There could be no question about it, _as long as
she knew no evil_.
The morning hours sped past. From arithmetic, they turned to the
English lesson. Next to perfection in her own Castilian, Josè felt
that this language was most important for her. And she delighted in
it, although her odd little pronunciations, and her vain attempts to
manipulate words to conform to her own ideas of enunciation brought
many a hearty laugh, in which she joined with enthusiasm. The
afternoon, as was his plan for future work, was devoted to narratives
of men and events, and to descriptions of places. It was a ceaseless
wonder to Josè how her mind absorbed his instruction.
"How readily you see these things, Carmen," he said, as he concluded
the work for the day.
"See them, Padre? But not with my outside eyes."
The remark seemed to start a train of thought within her mentality.
"Padre," she at length asked, "how do we see with our eyes?"
"It is very simple, _chiquita_," Josè replied. "Here, let me draw a
picture of an eye."
He quickly sketched a rough outline of the human organ of sight.
"Now," he began, "you know you cannot see in the dark, don't you?"
"Yes, Padre?"
"In order to see, we must have light."
"What is light, Padre dear?"
"Well--light is--is vibrations. That is, rapid movement."
"What moves?"
"A--a--a--well, nothing--that is, light is just vibrations. The
pendulum of the old clock in Don Mario's store vibrates, you
know--moves back and forth."
"And light does that?"
"Yes; light _is_ that. Now that chair there, for example, reflects
light, just as a mirror does. It reflects vibrations. And these are
all of just a certain length, for vibrations of just that length and
moving up and down just so fast make light. The light enters the eye,
like this," tracing the rays on his sketch. "It makes a little picture
of the chair on the back of the eye, where the optic nerve is
fastened. Now the light makes the little ends of this nerve vibrate,
too--move very rapidly. And that movement is carried along the nerve
to some place in the brain--to what we call the center of sight. And
there we see the chair."
The child studied the sketch long and seriously.
"But, Padre, is the picture of the chair carried on the nerve to the
brain?"
"Oh, no, _chiquita_, only vibrations. It is as if the nerve moved just
a little distance, but very, very fast, back and forth, or up and
down."
"And no picture is carried to the brain?"
"No, there is just a vibration in the brain."
"And that vibration makes us see the chair?"
"Yes, little one."
A moment of silence. Then--
"Padre dear, I don't believe it."
"Why, _chiquita_!"
"Well, Padre, what is it that sees the chair, anyway?"
"The mind, dear."
"Is the mind up there in the brain?"
"Well--no, we can't say that it is."
"Where is it, then?"
"A--a--well, no place in particular--that is, it is right here all the
time."
"Well, then, when the mind wants to see the chair does it have to
climb up into the brain and watch that little nerve wiggle?"
The man was at a loss for an answer. Carmen suddenly crumpled the
sketch in her small hand and smiled up at him.
"Padre dear, I don't believe our outside eyes see anything. We just
think they do, don't we?"
Josè looked out through the open door. Carmen's weird heron was
stalking in immense dignity past the house.
"I think Cantar-las-horas is getting ready to sing the Vespers,
_chiquita_. And so Doña Maria probably needs you now. We will talk
more about the eye to-morrow."
By the light of his sputtering candle that night Josè sat with elbows
propped on the table, his head clasped in his hands, and a sketch of
the human eye before him. In his confident attempt to explain to
Carmen the process of cognition he had been completely baffled.
Certainly, light coming from an object enters the eye and casts a
picture upon the retina. He had often seen the photographic camera
exhibit the same phenomenon. The law of the impenetrability of matter
had to be set aside, of course--or else light must be pure vibration,
without a material vibrating concomitant. Then, too, it was plain that
the light in some way communicated its vibration to the little
projecting ends of the optic nerve, which lie spread out over the rear
inner surface of the eye. And equally patent that this vibration is in
some way taken up by the optic nerve and transmitted to the center of
sight in the brain. But after that--what? He laughed again at Carmen's
pertinent question about the mind climbing up into the brain to see
the vibrating nerve. But was it so silly a presumption, after all? Is
the mind within the brain, awaiting in Stygian darkness the advent of
the vibrations which shall give it pictures of the outside world? Or
is the mind outside of the brain, but still slavishly forced to look
at these vibrations of the optic nerve and then translate them into
terms of things without? What could a vibrating nerve suggest to a
well-ordered mind, anyway? He might as logically wave a piece of meat
and expect thereby to see a world! He laughed aloud at the thought.
Why does not the foolish mind leave the brain and look at the picture
on the retina? Or why does it not throw off its shackles and look
directly at the object to be cognized, instead of submitting to
dependence upon so frail a thing as fleshly eyes and nerves?
As he mused and sketched, unmindful of the voracious mosquitoes or the
blundering moths that momentarily threatened his light, it dawned
slowly upon him that the mind's awareness of material objects could
not possibly depend upon the vibrations of pieces of nerve tissue, so
minute as to be almost invisible to the unaided sight. Still more
absurd did it appear to him that his own mind, of which he might
justly boast tremendous powers, could be prostituted to such a degree
that its knowledge of things must be served to it on waving pieces of
flesh.
And how about the other senses--touch, hearing? Did the ear hear, or
the hand feel? He had always accepted the general belief that man is
dependent absolutely upon the five physical senses for his knowledge
of an outside world. And now a little thought showed that from these
five senses man could not possibly receive anything more than a series
of disconnected vibrations! And, going a step further, anything that
the mind infers from these vibrations is unquestionably inferred
_without a particle of outside authority_!
He rose and paced the floor. A tremendous idea seemed to be knocking
at the portal of his mentality.
What can the mind know? Assuredly nothing but the contents of itself.
But the contents of mind are thoughts, ideas, mental things. Do solid
material objects enter the mind? Certainly not! Then the mind knows
not things, but its _thoughts of things_. And instead of seeing,
hearing, smelling, tasting, and feeling solid material objects, the
mind sees, hears, smells, tastes, and feels--what? The contents of
itself! Its own thoughts and ideas! And the outer world? Is only what
the mind _believes_ it to be. But surely his mind saw an outer world
through the medium of his eye! No. His mind saw only its own concepts
of an outer world--and these concepts, being mental, might take on
whatever hue and tinge his mind decreed. In other words, instead of
seeing a world of matter, he was seeing only a mental picture of a
world. And that picture was in his own mind, _and formed by that
mind_!
The man seized his hat and hurried out into the night. He walked
rapidly the full length of the town. His mind was wrestling with
stupendous thoughts.
An hour later he returned to his house, and seizing a pencil, wrote
rapidly: Matter is mental. We do not see or feel matter, but we
_think_ it. It is formed and held as a mental concept in every human
mind. The material universe is but the human mind's concept of a
universe, and can only be this mentality's translation to itself of
infinite Mind's purely mental Creation.
"And so," he commented aloud, sitting back and regarding his writing,
"all my miserable life I have been seeing only my own thoughts! And I
have let them use me and color my whole outlook!"
He extinguished the candle and threw himself, fully dressed, upon his
bed.