Our Lady Of La Rabida - 1

Our Lady Of La Rabida - 1

It is a long road from Santa Fe to Huelva, a long journey to make on foot, and the
company of a sad heart and a little talking boy, prone to sudden weariness and the asking
of innumerable difficult questions, would not make it very much shorter. Every step that
Christopher took carried him farther away from the glittering scene where his hopes had
once been so bright, and were now fallen to the dust; and every step brought him nearer
that unknown destiny as to which he was in great darkness of mind, and certain only that
there was some small next thing constantly to be done: the putting down of one foot after
another, the request for food and lodging at the end of each short day's march, the setting
out again in the morning. That walk from Santa Fe, so real and painful and wearisome
and long a thing to Christopher and Diego, is utterly blank and obliterated for us. What he
thought and felt and suffered are things quite dead; what he did-namely, to go and do the
immediate thing that it seemed possible and right for him to do—is a living fact to-day,
for it brought him, as all brave and honest doing will, a little nearer to his destiny, a little
nearer to the truthful realisation of what was in him.
At about a day's journey from Huelva, where the general slope of the land begins to fall
towards the sea, two small rivers, the Odiel and the Tinto, which have hitherto been
making music each for itself through the pleasant valleys and vineyards of Andalusia,
join forces, and run with a deeper stream towards the sea at Palos. The town of Palos lay
on the banks of the river; a little to the south of it, and on the brow of a rocky promontory
dark with pine trees, there stood the convent of Our Lady of La Rabida. Stood, on this
November evening in the year 1491; had stood in some form or other, and used for
varying purposes, for many years and centuries before that, even to the time of the
Romans; and still stands, a silent and neglected place, yet to be visited and seen by such
as are curious. To the door of this place comes Christopher as darkness falls, urged
thereto by the plight of Diego, who is tired and hungry. Christopher rings the bell, and
asks the porter for a little bread and water for the child, and a lodging for them both.
There is some talk at the door; the Franciscan lay brother being given, at all times in the
history of his order, to the pleasant indulgence of gossiping conversation, when that is
lawful; and the presence of a stranger, who speaks with a foreign accent, being at all
times a incident of interest and even of excitement in the quiet life of a monastery. The
moment is one big with import to the human race; it marks a period in the history of our
man; the scene is worth calling up. Dark night, with sea breezes moaning in the pine
trees, outside; raying light from within falling on the lay brother leaning in the doorway
and on the two figures standing without: on Christopher, grave, subdued, weary, yet now
as always of pleasant and impressive address, and on the small boy who stands beside
him round-eyed and expectant, his fatigue for the moment forgotten in curiosity and
anticipation.
While they are talking comes no less a person than the Prior of the monastery, Friar Juan
Perez, bustling round, good-natured busybody that he is, to see what is all this talk at the
door. The Prior, as is the habit of monks, begins by asking questions. What is the
stranger's name? Where does he come from? Where is he going to? What is his business?
Is the little boy his son? He has actually come from Santa Fe? The Prior, loving talk after
the manner of his kind, sees in this grave and smooth-spoken stranger rich possibilities of
talk; possibilities that cannot possibly be exhausted to-night, it being now hard on the
hour of Compline; the stranger must come in and rest for tonight at least, and possibly for
several nights. There is much bustle and preparation; the travellers are welcomed with
monkish hospitality; Christopher, we may be sure, goes and hears the convent singing
Compline, and offers up devout prayers for a quiet night and for safe conduct through this
vale of tears; and goes thankfully to bed with the plainsong echoing in his ears, and some
stoic sense that all days, however hard, have an evening, and all journeys an end.
Next morning the talk begins in earnest, and Christopher, never a very reserved man,
finds in the friendly curiosity of the monks abundant encouragement to talk; and before
very long he is in full swing with his oft-told story. The Prior is delighted with it; he has
not heard anything so interesting for a long time. Moreover, he has not always been in a
convent; he was not so long ago confessor to Queen Isabella herself, and has much to
communicate and ask concerning that lady. Columbus's proposal does not strike him as
being unreasonable at all; but he has a friend in Palos, a very learned man indeed, Doctor
Garcia Hernandez, who often comes and has a talk with him; he knows all about
astronomy and cosmography; the Prior will send for him. And meanwhile there must be
no word of Columbus's departure for a few days at any rate.
Presently Doctor Garcia Hernandez arrives, and the whole story is gone over again. They
go at it hammer and tongs, arguments and counter-arguments, reasons for and against,
encouragements, and objections. The result is that Doctor Garcia Hernandez, whose
learning seems not yet quite to have blinded or deafened him, thinks well of the scheme;
thinks so well of it that he protests it will be a thousand pities if the chance of carrying it
out is lost to Spain. The worthy Prior, who has been somewhat out of it while the talk
about degrees and latitudes has been going on, here strikes in again; he will use his
influence. Perhaps the good man, living up here among the pine trees and the sea winds,
and involved in the monotonous round of Prime, Lauds, Nones, Vespers, has a regretful
thought or two of the time when he moved in the splendid intricacy of Court life; at any
rate he is not sorry to have an opportunity of recalling himself to the attention of Her
Majesty, for the spiritual safety of whose soul he was once responsible; perhaps, being (in
spite of his Nones and Vespers) a human soul, he is glad of an opportunity of opposing
the counsels of his successor, Talavera. In a word, he will use his Influence. Then follow
much drafting of letters, and laying of heads together, and clatter of monkish tongues; the
upshot of which is that a letter is written in which Perez urges his daughter in the Lord in
the strongest possible terms not to let slip so glorious an opportunity, not only of fame
and increment to her kingdom, but of service to the Church and the kingdom of Heaven
itself. He assures her that Columbus is indeed about to depart from the country, but that
he (Perez) will detain him at La Rabida until he has an answer from the Queen.
A messenger to carry the letter was found in the person of Sebastian Rodriguez, a pilot of
the port, who immediately set off to Santa Fe. It is not likely that Columbus, after so
many rebuffs, was very hopeful; but in the meantime, here he was amid the pious
surroundings in which the religious part of him delighted, and in a haven of rest after all
his turmoils and trials. He could look out to sea over the flecked waters of that Atlantic
whose secrets he longed to discover; or he could look down into the busy little port of
Palos, and watch the ships sailing in and out across the bar of Saltes. He could let his
soul, much battered and torn of late by trials and disappointments, rest for a time on the
rock of religion; he could snuff the incense in the chapel to his heart's content, and mingle
his rough top-gallant voice with the harsh croak of the monks in the daily cycle of prayer
and praise. He could walk with Diego through the sandy roads beneath the pine trees, or
through the fields and vineyards below; and above all he could talk to the company that
good Perez invited to meet him—among them merchants and sailors from Palos, of
whom the chief was Martin Alonso Pinzon, a wealthy landowner and navigator, whose
family lived then at Palos, owning the vineyards round about, and whose descendants live
there to this day. Pinzon was a listener after Columbus's own heart; he not only believed
in his project, but offered to assist it with money, and even to accompany the expedition
himself. Altogether a happy and peaceful time, in which hopes revived, and the inner
light that, although it had now and then flickered, had never gone out, burned up again in
a bright and steady flame.