El Dorado Found Again.
"And every power was used, and every art,
To bend to falsehood one determined heart,
Assailed, in patience it received the shock,
Soft as the wave, unbroken as the rock."--Crabbe
"What are you doing, my father?" Carlos asked one morning.
Don Juan had produced from some private receptacle a small ink-horn, and
was moistening its long-dried contents with water.
"I was thinking that I should like to write down somewhat," he said.
"But whereto will ink serve us without pen and paper?"
The penitent smiled; and presently pulled out from within his pallet a
little faded writing-book, and a pen that looked--what it was--more than
twenty years old.
"Long ago," he said, "I used to be weary, weary of sitting idle all the
day; so I bribed one of the lay brothers with my last ducat to bring me
this, only that I might set down therein whatever happened, for
pastime."
"May I read it, my father?"
"And welcome, if thou wilt;" and he gave the book into the hand of his
son. "At first, as you see, there be many things written therein. I
cannot tell what they are now; I have forgotten them all;--but I suppose
I thought them, or felt them--once. Or sometimes the brethren would
come to visit me, and talk, and afterwards I would write what they said.
But by degrees I set down less and less in it. Many days passed in
which I wrote nothing, because nothing was to write. Nothing ever
happened."
Carlos was soon absorbed in the perusal of the little book. The records
of his father's earlier prison life he scanned with great interest and
with deep emotion; but coming rather suddenly upon the last entry, he
could not forbear a smile. He read aloud:
"'A feast day. Had a capon for dinner, and a measure of red wine.'"
"Did I not judge well," asked the father, "that it was time to give over
writing, when I could stoop low enough to record such trifles? Yes; I
think I can recall the bitterness of heart with which I laid the book
aside. I despised myself for what I wrote therein; and yet I had
nothing else to write--would never have anything else, I thought. But
now God has given me my son. I will write that down."
Looking up, after a little while, from his self-imposed task, he asked,
with an air of perplexity,--
"But when was it? How long is it since you came here, Carlos?"
Carlos in his turn was perplexed. The quiet days had glided on swiftly
and noiselessly, leaving no trace behind.
"To me it seems to have been all one long Sabbath," he said. "But let
me think. The summer heats had not come; I suppose it must have been
March or April--April, perhaps. I remember thinking I had been just two
years in prison."
"And now it is growing cool again. I suppose it may have been four
months--six months ago. What think you?"
Carlos thought it nearer the latter period than the former.
"I believe we have been visited six times by the brethren," he said.
"No; only five times."
These visits of inspection had been made by command of the
prior--himself absent from Seville on important business during most of
the time--and the result had been duly reported to him. The monks to
whom the duty had been deputed were aged and respectable members of the
community; in fact, the only persons in the monastery who were
acquainted with Don Juan's real name and history. It was their opinion
that matters were progressing favourably with the prisoners. They found
the penitent as usual--docile, obedient, submissive, only more inclined
to converse than formerly; and they thought the young man very gentle
and courteous, grateful for the smallest kindness, and ready to listen
attentively, and with apparent interest, to everything that was said.
For more definite results the prior was content to wait: he had great
faith in waiting. Still, even to him six months seemed long enough for
the experiment he was trying. At the end of that time--which happened
to be the day after the conversation just related--he himself made a
visit to the prisoners.
Both most warmly expressed their gratitude for the singular grace he had
shown them. Carlos, whose health had greatly improved, said that he had
not dreamed so much earthly happiness could remain for him still.
"Then, my son," said the prior, "give evidence of thy gratitude in the
only way possible to thee, or acceptable to me. Do not reject the mercy
still offered thee by Holy Church. Ask for reconciliation."
"My lord," replied Carlos, firmly, "I can but repeat what I told you six
months agone--that is impossible."
The prior argued, expostulated, threatened--in vain. At length he
reminded Carlos that he was already condemned to death--the death of
fire; and that he was now putting from him his last chance of mercy.
But when he still remained steadfast, he turned away from him with an
air of deep disappointment, though more in sorrow than in anger, as one
pained by keen and unexpected ingratitude.
"I speak to thee no more," he said. "I believe there is in thy father's
heart some little spark, not only of natural feeling but of the grace of
God. I address myself to him."
Whether Don Juan had never fully comprehended the statement of Carlos
that he was under sentence of death, or whether the tide of emotion
caused by finding in him his own son had swept the terrible fact from
his remembrance, it is impossible to say; but it certainly came to him,
from the lips of the prior, as a dreadful, unexpected blow. So keen was
his anguish that Fray Ricardo himself was moved; and the rather, because
it was impossible to the aged and broken man to maintain the outward
self-restraint a younger and stronger person might have done.
More touched, at the moment, by his father's condition than by all the
horrors that menaced himself, Carlos came to his side, and gently tried
to soothe him.
"Cease!" said the prior, sternly. "It is but mockery to pretend
sympathy with the sorrow thine own obstinacy has caused. If in truth
thou lovest him, save him this cruel pain. For three days still," he
added, "the door of grace shall stand open to thee. After that term has
expired, I dare not promise thy life." Then turning to the agitated
father--"If _you_ can make this unhappy youth hear the voice of divine
and human compassion," he said, "you will save both his body and his
soul alive. You know how to send me a message. God comfort you, and
incline his heart to repentance." And with these words he departed,
leaving Carlos to undergo the sharpest trial that had come upon him
since his imprisonment.
All that day, and the greater part of the night that followed it, the
two wills strove together. Prayers, tears, entreaties, seemed to the
agonized father to fall on the strong heart of his son like drops of
rain on the rock. He did not know that all the time they were falling
on that heart like sparks of living fire; for Carlos, once so weak, had
learned now to endure pain, both of mind and body, with brow and lip
that "gave no sign." Passing tender was the love that had sprung up
between those two, so strangely brought together. And now Carlos, by
his own act, must sever that sweet bond--must leave his newly-found
father in a solitude doubly terrible, where the feeble lamp of his life
would soon go out in obscure darkness. Was not this bitterness enough,
without the anguish of seeing that father bow his white head before him,
and teach his aged lips words of broken, passionate entreaty that his
son--his one earthly treasure--would not forsake him thus?
"My father," Carlos said at last, as they sat together in the moonlight,
for their light had gone out unheeded--"my father, you have often told
me that my face is like my mother's."
"Ay de mi!" moaned the penitent--"and truly it is. Is that why it must
leave me as hers did? Ay de mi, Costanza mia! Ay de mi, my son!"
"Father, tell me, I pray you, to escape what anguish of mind or body
would you set your seal to a falsehood told to her dishonour?"
"Boy, how can you ask? Never!--nothing could force me to that." And
from the faded eye there shot a gleam almost like the fire of old days.
"Father, there is One I love better than ever you loved her. Not to
save myself, not even to save you, from this bitter pain, can I deny him
or dishonour his name. Father, I cannot!--Though this is worse than the
torture," he added.
The anguish of the last words pierced to the very core of the old man's
heart. He said no more; but he covered his face, and wept long and
passionately, as a man weeps whose heart is broken, and who has no
longer any power left him to struggle against his doom.
Their last meal lay untasted. Some wine had formed part of it; and this
Carlos now brought, and, with a few gentle, loving words, offered to his
father. Don Juan put it aside, but drew his son closer, and looked at
him in the moonlight long and earnestly.
"How can I give thee up?" he murmured.
As Carlos tried to return his gaze, it flashed for the first time across
his mind that his father was changed. He looked older, feebler, more
wan than he had done at his coming. Was the newly-awakened spirit
wearing out the body? He said,--
"It may be, my father, that God will not call you to the trial. Perhaps
months may elapse before they arrange another Auto."
How calmly he could speak of it;--for he had forgotten himself. Courage,
with him, always had its root in self-forgetting love.
Don Juan caught at the gleam of hope, though not exactly as Carlos
intended. "Ay, truly," he said, "many things may happen before then."
"And nothing _can_ happen save at the will of Him who loves and cares
for us. Let us trust him, my beloved father. He will not allow us to
be tempted above that we are able to bear. For he is good--oh, how
good!--to the soul that seeketh him. Long ago I believed that; but since
he has honoured me to suffer for him, once and again have I proved it
true, true as life or death. Father, I once thought the strongest thing
on earth--that which reached deepest into our nature--was pain. But I
have lived to learn that his love is stronger, his peace is deeper, than
all pain."
With many such words--words of faith, and hope, and tenderness--did he
soothe his weary, broken-hearted father. And at last, though not till
towards morning, he succeeded in inducing him to lie down and seek the
rest he so sorely needed.
Then came his own hour; the hour of bitter, lonely conflict. He had
grown accustomed to the thought, to the _expectation_, of a silent,
peaceful death within the prison walls. He had hoped, nay, certainly
believed, that in the slow hours of some quiet day or night,
undistinguished from other days and nights, God's messenger would steal
noiselessly to his gloomy cell, and heart and brain would thrill with
rapture at the summons, "The Master calleth thee."
Now, indeed, it was true that the Master called him. But he called him
to go to Him through the scornful gaze of ten thousand eyes; through
reproach, and shame, and mockery; the hideous zamarra and carroza; the
long agony of the Auto, spun out from daybreak till midnight; and, last
of all, through the torture of the doom of fire. How could he bear it?
Sharp were the pangs of fear that wrung his heart, and dread was the
struggle that followed.
It was over at last. Raising to the cold moonlight a steadfast though
sorrowful face, Carlos murmured audibly, "What time I am afraid I will
put my trust in thee. Lord, I am ready to go with thee, whithersoever
thou wilt; only--with thee."
He woke, late the following morning, from the sleep of exhaustion to the
painful consciousness of something terrible to come upon him. But he
was soon roused from thoughts of self by seeing his father kneel before
the crucifix, not quietly reciting his appointed penance, but uttering
broken words of prayer and lamentation, accompanied by bitter weeping.
As far as he could gather, the burden of the cry was this, "God help me!
God forgive me! _I have lost it_!" Over and over again did he moan
those piteous words, "I have lost it!" as if they were the burden of
some dreary song. They seemed to contain the sum of all his sorrow.
Carlos, yearning to comfort him, still did not feel that he could
interrupt him then. He waited quietly until they were both ready for
their usual reading or repetition of Scripture; for Carlos, every
morning, either read from the Book of Hours to his father, or recited
passages from memory, as suited his inclination at the time.
He knew all the Gospel of John by heart. And this day he began with
those blessed words, dear in all ages to the tried and sorrowing, "Let
not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In
my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have
told you. I go to prepare a place for you." He continued without pause
to the close of the sixteenth chapter, "These things I have spoken unto
you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have
tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."
Then once more Don Juan uttered that cry of bitter pain, "Ay de mi! I
have lost it!"
Carlos thought he understood him now. "Lost that peace, my father?" he
questioned gently.
The old man bowed his head sorrowfully.
"But it is in Him. 'In me ye might have peace.' And Him you have,"
said Carlos.
Don Juan drew his hand across his brow, was silent for a few moments,
then said slowly, "I will try to tell you how it is with me. There is
one thing I could do, even yet; one path left open to my footsteps in
which none could part us.--What hinders my refusing to perform my
penance, and boldly taking my stand beside thee, Carlos?"
Carlos started, flushed, grew pale again with emotion. He had not
dreamed of this, and his heart shrank from it in terror. "My beloved
father!" he exclaimed in a trembling voice. "But no--God has not called
you. Each one of us must wait to see his guiding hand."
"Once I could have done it bravely, nay, joyfully," said the penitent.
"_Not now_." And there was a silence.
At last Don Juan resumed, "My boy, thy courage shames my weakness. What
hast thou seen, what dost thou see, that makes this thing possible to
thee?"
"My father knows. I see Him who died for me, who rose again for me, who
lives at the right hand of God to intercede for me."
"_For me?_"
"Yes; it is this thought that gives strength and peace."
"Peace--which I have lost for ever."
"Not for ever, my honoured father. No; you are his, and of such it is
written, 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.' Though your
tired hand has relaxed its grasp of him, his has never ceased to hold
you, and never can cease."
"I was at peace and happy long ago, when I believed, as Don Rodrigo
said, that I was justified by faith in him."
"Once justified, justified for ever," said Carlos.
"Don Rodrigo used to say so too, but--I cannot understand it now," and a
look of perplexity passed over his face.
Carlos spoke more simply. "No! Then come to him now, my father, just
as if you had never come before. You may not know that you are
justified; you know well that you are weary and heavy laden. And to
such he says, 'Come.' He says it with outstretched arms, with a heart
full of love and tenderness. He is as willing to save you from sin and
sorrow as you are this hour to save me from pain and death. Only, you
cannot, and he can."
"Come--that is--believe?"
"It is believe, and more. Come, as your heart came out to me, and mine
to you, when we knew the great bond between us. But with far stronger
trust and deeper love; for he is more than son or father. He fulfils
all relationships, satisfies all wants."
"But then, what of those long years in which I forgot him!"
"They were but adding to the sum of sin; sin that he has pardoned, has
washed away for ever in his blood."
At that point the conversation dropped, and days passed ere it was
renewed. Don Juan was unusually silent; very tender to his son, making
no complaint, but often weeping quietly. Carlos thought it best to leave
God to deal with him directly, so he only prayed for him and with him,
repeated precious Scripture words, and sometimes sang to him the psalms
and hymns of the Church.
But one evening, to the affectionate "Good-night" always exchanged by
the son and father with the sense that many more might not be left to
them, Don Juan added, "Rejoice with me, my son; for I think that I have
found again the thing that I lost--
'El Dorado
Yo he trovada.'"