In the days that followed, while at times Josè still struggled
desperately against the depression of his primal environment, and
against its insidious suggestions of license, Carmen moved before him
like the shechinah of Israel, symbolizing the divine presence. When
the dark hours came and his pronounced egoism bade fair to overwhelm
him; when his self-centered thought clung with the tenacity of a
limpet to his dreary surroundings and his unfilled longings; when
self-condemnation and self-pity rived his soul, and despair of solving
life's intricate problems settled again like a pall upon him, he
turned to her. Under the soft influence of her instinct for primitive
good, he was learning, even if slowly, to jettison his heavily laden
soul, and day by day to ride the tossing waves of his stormy thought
with a lighter cargo. Her simple faith in immanent good was working
upon his mind like a spiritual catharsis, to purge it of its clogging
beliefs. Her unselfed love flowed over him like heavenly balm, salving
the bleeding wounds of the spiritual mayhem which he had suffered at
the violent hands of Holy Church's worldly agents.
Carmen's days were filled to the brim with a measure of joy that
constantly overflowed upon all among whom she moved. Her slight
dependence upon her impoverished material environment, her contempt
of its _ennui_, were constant reminders to Josè that heaven is but
a state of mind. Even in desolate Simití, life to her was an
endless series of delightful experiences, of wonderful surprises
in the discovery of God's presence everywhere. Her enthusiasms were
always ardent and inexhaustible. Sparkling animation and abounding
vitality characterized her every movement. Her thought was free,
unstrained, natural, and untrammeled by those inherited and educated
beliefs in evil in which Josè had early been so completely swamped.
In worldly knowledge she was the purest novice; and the engaging
_naïveté_ with which she met the priest's explanations of historical
events and the motives from which they sprang charmed him beyond
measure, and made his work with her a constant delight. Her sense of
humor was keen, and her merriment when his recitals touched her
risibility was extravagant. She laughed at danger, laughed at the
weaknesses and foibles of men, when he told of the political and
social ambitions which stirred mankind in the outside world. But he
knew that her merriment proceeded not from an ephemeral sense of
the ludicrous, but from a righteous appraisal of the folly and
littleness of those things for which the world so sorely strives.
And daily the little maid wrapped herself about his heart. Daily her
wondrous love coiled its soft folds tighter around him, squeezing from
his atrabilious soul, drop by drop, its sad taciturnity and inherent
morbidness, that it might later fill his empty life with a spiritual
richness which he had never known before.
On the day following the opening of the church Carmen had asked
many questions. It was the first religious service she had ever
voluntarily attended. To her former queries regarding the function
of the church edifice, Rosendo had vouchsafed but one reply: it was
the house of God, and in it the people used to gather to learn of Him.
But she protested that she had no need of the musty, ramshackle,
barn-like old building as a locus in which to center her thought upon
God. She walked with Him, and she much preferred the bright, sunlit
out-of-doors in which to commune with Him. Josè explained the need
of a central gathering place as a shelter from the hot sun. But the
images--the pictures of Saints and Virgin--and the Mass itself?
"They are what the people are accustomed to, dear child, to direct
their thought toward God," he explained. "And we will use them until
we can teach them something better." He had omitted from the church
service as far as possible the collects and all invocations addressed
to the Virgin and the Saints, and had rendered it short and extremely
simple. Carmen seemed satisfied with his explanation, and with his
insistence that, for the sake of appearance, she attend the Sunday
services. He would trust her God to guide them both.
The days sped by silently and swiftly. Josè and the child dwelt
together apart from the world, in a universe purely mental. As he
taught her, she hung upon his every word, and seized the proffered
tutelage with avidity. Often, after the day's work, Josè, in his
customary strolls about the little town, would come across the girl in
the doorway of a neighboring house, with a group of wide-eyed
youngsters about her, relating again the wonder-tales which she had
gathered from him. Marvelous tales they were, too, of knight and
_hidalgo_, of court and camp, of fairies, pyxies, gnomes and sprites,
of mossy legend and historic fact, bubbling from the girl's childish
lips with an engaging _naïveté_ of interpretation that held the man
enchanted. Even the schoolmaster, who had besought Josè in vain to
turn Carmen over to him, was often a spellbound listener at these
little gatherings.
The result was that in a short time a delegation, headed by the
Alcalde himself, waited upon Josè and begged him to lecture to the
people of Simití in the church building at least two or three evenings
a week upon places and people he had seen in the great world of which
they knew nothing. Josè's eyes were moist as he looked at the great,
brawny men, stout of heart, but simple as children. He grieved to give
up his evenings, for he had formed the habit of late of devoting them
to the study of his Bible, and to meditation on those ideas which had
so recently come to him. But the appeal from these innocent, untutored
people again quenched the thought of self, and he bade them be assured
that their request was granted.
The new ideas which had found entrance into Josè's liberated mentality
in the past few days had formed a basis on which he was not afraid to
stand while teaching Carmen; and his entire instruction was
thenceforth colored by them. He knew not why, in all the preceding
years, such ideas had not come to him before. But he was to learn,
some day, that his previous tenacious clinging to evil as a reality,
together with his material beliefs and his worldly intellectuality,
had stood as barriers at the portals of his thought, and kept the
truth from entering. His mind had been already full--but its contents
were unbelief, fear, the conviction of evil as real and operative, and
the failure to know God as immanent, omnipotent and perfect mind, to
whom evil is forever unknown and unreal. Pride, egoism, and his morbid
sense of honesty had added their portion to the already impassable
obstruction at the gateway of his thought. And so the error had been
kept within, the good without. The "power of the Lord" had not been
absent; but it had remained unapplied. Thus he had wandered through
the desolate wilderness; but yet sustained and kept alive, that he
should not go down to the pit.
Josè's days were now so crowded that he was forced to borrow heavily
from the night. The Alcalde continued his unctuous flattery, and the
priest, in turn, cultivated him assiduously. To that official's query
as to the restitution of the confessional in the church, the priest
replied that he could spare time to hear only such confessions from
his flock as might be necessary to elicit from him the advice or
assistance requisite for their needs. He was there to help them solve
their life problems, not to pry into their sacred secrets; and their
confessions must relate only to their necessities.
The Alcalde went away with a puzzled look. Of a truth a new sort of
priest had now to be reckoned with in Simití--a very different sort
from Padre Diego.
In the first days of Josè's incumbency he found many serious matters
to adjust. He had learned from Rosendo that not half the residents of
Simití were married to the consorts with whom they lived, and that
many of the children who played in the streets did not know who their
fathers were. So prevalent was this evil condition that the custom
among the men of having their initials embroidered upon the bosoms of
their shirts was extended to include the initial of the mother's
family name. Josè had questioned Rosendo as to the meaning of the
letters R. A. S. upon his shirt.
"The S, Padre, is the initial of my mother's family name. I am Rosendo
Ariza, son of the daughter of Saurez. My parents were married by a
priest. But half the people of Simití have never been really
married."
Josè sought the cause of this dereliction. Fidel Avila was living with
a woman, by whom he had three children. The priest summoned him to the
parish house.
"Fidel," he questioned sternly, "Jacinta, the woman you live with, is
your wife?"
"Yes, _Señor Padre_."
"And you were married by the Church?"
"No, Padre."
"But was there a priest here when you began to live with Jacinta?"
"Yes, Padre. The _Cura_, Don Diego Polo, was here."
"Then why were you not married by him? Do you not know how wicked it
is to live as you are doing? Think of your children!"
"Yes, Padre, and I asked the _Cura_, Don Diego, to marry us. But he
charged twenty _pesos oro_ for doing it; and I could not afford it. I
loved Jacinta. And so we decided to live together without the
marriage."
"But--!" Josè stopped. He knew that the Church recognized no marriage
unless it were performed by a priest. The civil magistrate had no
jurisdiction in such a case. And a former priest's rapacity had
resulted in forcing illegitimacy upon half the children of this
benighted hamlet, because of their parents' inability to afford the
luxury of a canonical marriage.
"Fidel, were your father and mother married?" he asked in kinder
tones.
"I do not know, Padre. Only a few people in Guamocó can afford to pay
to be married. The men and women live together, perhaps for all time,
perhaps for only a few months. If a man wishes to leave his woman and
live with another, he does so. If there are children, the woman always
has to keep and care for them."
"And could you leave Jacinta if you wished, and live with another
woman?"
"Yes, Padre."
"And she would have to lake care of your children?"
"Yes."
"And all because you are not married?"
"I think so, Padre."
"_Hombre!_ But that will do, Fidel."
Oh, the sordid greed of those who abuse their sacred commission! What
punishment is mete for such as exploit these lowly folk in the name of
religion! Josè strode off to consult the Alcalde.
"Don Mario, the men in Simití who are living with women have _got_ to
be married to them! It is shameful! I shall make a canvass of the town
at once!"
The Alcalde laughed. "_Costumbre_, Padre. You can't change it."
_Costumbre del país!_ It is a final answer all through South America.
No matter how unreasonable a thing may be, if it is the custom of the
country it is a Medean law.
"But you know this is subversive of Church discipline!" Josè retorted
warmly. "Look you, Don Mario," he added suggestively, "you and I are
to work together, are we not?"
The Alcalde blinked his pig eyes, but thought hard about La Libertad.
_"Cierto, Señor Padre!"_ he hastened to exclaim.
"Then I demand that you summon before me every man and woman who are
living together unmarried."
With a thought single to his own future advantage, the wary Alcalde
complied. Within the week following this interview Josè married twenty
couples, and without charge. Some offered him a few _pesos_. These he
took and immediately turned over to Don Mario as treasurer of the
parish. Those couples who refused to be married were forced by the
Alcalde to separate. But of these there were few. Among them was one
Julio Gomez. Packing his few household effects upon his back, and
muttering imprecations against the priest, Gomez set out for the
hills, still followed by his woman, with a babe slung over her
shoulders and two naked children toddling at her bare heels.
Verily, the ancient town was being profoundly stirred by the man who
had sought to find his tomb there. Gradually the people lost their
suspicions and distrust, bred of former bitter experience with
priests, and joined heartily with Josè to ameliorate the social status
of the place. His sincere love for them, and his utter selflessness,
secured their confidence, and ere his first month among them closed,
he had won them, almost to a man.
Meantime, six weeks had passed since Rosendo had departed to take up
his lonely task of self-renouncing love. Then one day he returned,
worn and emaciated, his great frame shaking like a withered leaf in a
chill blast.
"It is the _terciana_, Padre," he said, as he sank shuddering upon
his bed. "It comes every third day. I went as far as Tachí--fifty
leagues from Simití--and there the fever overtook me. I have been
eight days coming back; and day before yesterday I ran out of
food. Last evening I found a wild melon at the side of the trail. A
coral snake struck at me when I reached for it, but he hit my
_machete_ instead. _Caramba!_"
Josè pressed his wet hand, while Doña Maria laid damp cloths upon his
burning forehead.
"The streams are washed out, Padre," Rosendo continued sadly. "I
worked at Colorado, Popales, and Tambora. But I got no more than five
_pesos_ worth. And that will not pay for half of my supplies. It is
there in a little bag," pointing to his soaked and muddy kit.
Josè's heart was wrung by the suffering and disappointment of the old
man. Sadly he carried the little handful of gold flakes to Don Mario,
and then returned to the exhausted Rosendo.
All through the night the sick man tossed and moaned. By morning he
was delirious. Then Josè and Doña Maria became genuinely alarmed. The
toil and exposure had been too much for Rosendo at his advanced age.
In his delirium he talked brokenly of the swamps through which he had
floundered, for he had taken the trail in the wet season, and fully
half of its one hundred and fifty miles of length was oozy and all but
impassable bog.
By afternoon the fever had greatly increased. Don Mario shook his head
as he stood over him.
"I have seen many in that condition, Padre, and they didn't wake up!
If we had quinine, perhaps he might be saved. But there isn't a flake
in the town."
"Then send Juan to Bodega Central at once for it!" cried Josè, wild
with apprehension.
"I doubt if he would find it there either, Padre. But we can try.
However, Juan cannot make the trip in less than two days. And I fear
Rosendo will not last that long."
Doña Maria sat by the bedside, dumb with grief. Josè wrung his hands
in despair. The day drew slowly to a close. The Alcalde had dispatched
Juan down to the river to signal any steamer that he should meet, if
perchance he might purchase a few grains of the only drug that could
save the sick man. Carmen had absented herself during the day; but
she returned in time to assist Doña Maria with the evening meal,
after which she went at once to her bed.
Late at night, when the sympathizing townsmen had sorrowfully departed
and Josè had induced Doña Maria to seek a few moments rest on her
_petate_ in the living room, Carmen climbed quietly out of her bed and
came to where the priest sat alone with the unconscious Rosendo.
Josè was bending over the delirious man. "Oh, if Jesus were only here
now!" he murmured.
"Padre dear."
Josè looked down into the little face beside him.
"People don't die, you know. They don't really die." The little head
shook as if to emphasize the words.
Josè was startled. But he put his arm about the child and drew her to
him. "_Chiquita_, why do you say that?" he asked sorrowfully.
"Because God doesn't die, you know," she quickly replied. "And we are
like Him, Padre, aren't we?"
"But He calls us to Him, _chiquita_. And--I guess--He is--is calling
your padre Rosendo now."
Does God kill mankind in order to give them life? Is that His way?
Death denies God, eternal Life. And--
"Why, no, Padre," returned the innocent child. "He is always here; and
we are always with Him, you know. He can not call people away from
where He is, can He?"
_Lo, I am with you alway, even to the end of the world._ The
Christ-principle, the saving truth about God and man, is ever present
in an uncomprehending world.
Josè knew that there was no material dependence now. Something told
him that Rosendo lay dying. There was no physician, no drug, in the
isolated little town. There was none but God to save. And He--
But only sinners are taught by priests and preachers to look to God
for help. The sick are not so taught. How much more deplorable, then,
is their condition than that of the wicked!
"I told God out on the shales this afternoon that I just knew padre
Rosendo wouldn't die!" The soft, sweet voice hovered on the silence
like celestial melody.
_If ye ask anything in my name_--in my character--_it shall be given
you_. Carmen asked in the character of the sinless Christ, for her
asking was an assertion of what she instinctively knew to be truth,
despite the evidence of the physical senses. Her petitions were
affirmations of Immanuel--God with us.
"Carmen," whispered the priest hoarsely, "go back to your bed, and
know, just _know_ that God is here! Know that He did not make padre
Rosendo sick, and that He will not let him die! Know it for him--and
for me!"
"Why, Padre, I know that now!" The child looked up into the priest's
face with her luminous eyes radiating unshaken trust--a trust that
seemed born of understanding. Yea, she knew that all good was there,
for God is omnipotent. They had but to stretch forth their hands to
touch the robe of His Christ. The healing principle which cleansed the
lepers and raised the dead was even with them there in that quiet
room. Josè had only to realize it, nothing doubting. Carmen had done
her work, and her mind now was stayed on Him. Infinite Intelligence
did not know Rosendo as Josè was trying to know him, sick and dying.
God is Life--and there is no death!
Carmen was again asleep. Josè sat alone, his open Bible before him and
his thought with his God.
Oh, for even a slight conception of Him who is Life! Moses worked "as
seeing Him who is invisible." Carmen lived with her eyes on Him,
despite her dreary mundane encompassment. And Josè, as he sat there
throughout the watches of the night, facing the black terror, was
striving to pierce the mist which had gone up from the face of the
ground and was separating him from his God. Through the long, dark
hours, with the quiet of death upon the desolate chamber, he sat mute
before the veil that was "still untaken away."
What was it that kept telling him that Rosendo lay dying before him?
Does matter talk? Did the serpent talk to Eve? Do fleshly nerves and
frail bodily organs converse with men? Can the externalization of
thought report back to the thought itself? Nay, the report came to him
from the physical senses--naught else. And they reported--nothing! He
was seeing but his own thoughts of mixed good and evil. And they were
false, because they testified against God.
Surely God knew Rosendo. But not as the physical senses were trying to
make Josè know him, sick and dying. Surely the subjective determines
the objective; for as we think, so are we--the Christ said that. From
his human standpoint Josè was seeing his thoughts of a dying mortal.
And now he was trying to know that those thoughts did not come from
God--that they had no authority back of them--that they were children
of the "one lie" about God--that they were false, false as hell, and
therefore impotent and unreal.
What, then, had he to fear? Nothing, for truth is beyond the reach of
personal sense. So God and His ideas, reflected by the real Rosendo,
were beyond the reach of evil.
If this were true, then he must clear his own mentality--even as he
now knew Carmen had done out on the shales that afternoon. He was no
longer dealing with a material Rosendo, but with false beliefs about a
son of God. He was handling mental concepts. And to the serpent,
error, he was trying to say: "What is your authority?"
If man lives, he never dies. If man is, then he always has been. And
he was never born--and never passes into oblivion. A fact never
changes. If two and two make four to-day, they always have done so,
and always will.
Can good produce evil? Then evil can have no creator. Rosendo, when
moved by good, had gone into the wilds of Guamocó on a mission of
love. Did evil have power to smite him for his noble sacrifice?
What is this human life of ours? Real existence? No, but a sense of
existence--and a false sense, for it postulates a god of evil opposed
to the one supreme Creator of all that really is. Then the testimony
that said Rosendo must die was cruelly false. And, more, it was
powerless--unless Josè himself gave it power.
Did Carmen know that? Had she so reasoned? Assuredly no! But she knew
God as Josè had never known Him. And, despite the testimony of the
fleshly eyes, she had turned from physical sense to Him.
"It is not practicable!" the world cries in startled protest.
But, behold her life!
Josè had begun to see that discord was the result of unrighteousness,
false thought. He began to understand why it was that Jesus always
linked disease with sin. His own paradoxical career had furnished
ample proof of that. Yet his numberless tribulations were not due
solely to his own wrong thinking, but likewise to the wrong thought of
others with respect to him, thought which he knew not how to
neutralize. And the channels for this false, malicious, carnal thought
had been his beloved parents, his uncle, the Archbishop, his tutors,
and, in fact, all with whom he had been associated until he came to
Simití. There he had found Carmen. And there the false thought had met
a check, a reversal. The evil had begun to destroy itself. And he was
slowly awaking to find nothing but good.
The night hours flitted through the heavy gloom like spectral
acolytes. Rosendo sank into a deep sleep. The steady roll of the frogs
in the lake at length died away. A flush stole timidly across the
eastern sky.
"Padre dear, he will not die."
It was Carmen's voice that awoke the slumbering priest. The child
stood at his side, and her little hand clasped his. Rosendo slept.
His chest rose and fell with the rhythmic breathing. Josè looked down
upon him. A great lump came into his throat, and his voice trembled as
he spoke.
"You are right, _chiquita_. Go, call your madre Maria now, and I will
go home to rest."