The Seminary of Puyóo could boast of many saintly men and many wise ones, some clever and some worldly, but all agreed to sing the praises of Luis—of his virtues and of that holy hatred of himself which, notwithstanding all that is preached in its honour, would seem to be a somewhat archaic form of piety. Nevertheless, the very tendency of modern devotion to come to a compromise with good living and easy sleeping, makes the resolute abstinence and voluntary martyrdom of the marquis’ son, all the more praiseworthy. His fame was great throughout the catholic world and talked of even in Rome.
He lived habitually in tranquil silence, and in spite of his sincere affection for his parents, he had fought out many a desperate battle with himself to keep his mind from ever dwelling on the thought of them, so that nothing should alienate his mind from the constant presence of God which was the sole aim and end of his hopes and sufferings. His talents were as conspicuous as his saintliness; he had made rapid progress in his studies and was so versatile and keen-witted that he had early mastered philosophy and theology, and could argue so closely that the most practised debaters were astonished. But this became a great anxiety to his conscience, for all these praises jarred on his humility; so, for fear they should make him vain, he affected stupidity; to be treated as the lowest and least in his college was his greatest desire, and it was only by the peremptory command of the Superior that he consented to display his talents, but then his convincing logic and persuasive eloquence drew tears from the most strong-hearted. He always obeyed his Superior, was exact in his observance of rules and regulations, and achieved such perfect command of his senses that at length he seemed to have lost them; his closed ears and eyes always fixed on the ground, paid no heed to anything that went on. He passed other people without even seeing them; now and then he would take a walk with his companions, but he observed nothing. He had registered a vow never to look on the face of a woman excepting his mother or his sister, and he kept it with the utmost strictness. By such a system he must surely keep his spirit pure—almost as pure, as that of the babe unborn!
When his doctors pronounced his illness incurable, he declared himself infinitely happy, nay, he rejoiced so fervently in the idea of suffering much and dying in torments, that he made a crime even of that joy, and asked his spiritual director whether he had not in fact sinned in glorying in the certainty of approaching death, and if it were not a snare of vanity. When his conscience was set at rest on this delicate point, he watched the progress of the disease and aggravated it in secret by his austerities, and by never following the advice of his doctors. The decision of the Superior to send him home when death seemed certainly near, had at first greatly grieved him; but then a plan formed itself in his mind that reconciled him to being removed to Madrid, and to an imprisonment in the splendid rooms which to him were like a reflection or embodiment of his own disease, no less horrible, diabolical and revolting.
Thus, in direct contravention of all natural law and instinct, he encouraged his disease as we cherish a precious plant; he fed the monster that preyed upon him, triumphing in the wasting and decay of his miserable flesh, which he regarded solely as a burden.
“The world,” he would say, “is a foul and narrow alley in which mankind revels and struggles as in a wild delirium. We are all condemned to pass through it, disguised in the loathsome mask of our body. How happy are they who are soon at the end, and who may then cast aside the mask, and appear as they are before God!”
This was the angelic spirit, the enthusiastic and ecstatic soul, full of faith and contempt for the world, that was worthy to give our age what, indeed, it still lacks—a Saint, if the nineteenth century did not seem inclined, on the contrary, to break the die that coins saints. To be sure Luis did not work miracles; but who can tell whether he may not have had the power, and have concealed it in obedience to his pious habit of chastening his vanity? Some indeed said that all this piety was nothing more than a well-acted part; but this, in fact, was without foundation; those were nearer the truth who said that sanctity, like chivalry, has it Quixotes. Luis was pious in good faith; if he deceived any one it was himself, and he certainly was magnanimous and heroic. Not one of the young novices who at that time tried to imitate Saint Luis Gonzaga—and there was a perfect mania for it among the aspirants to the priesthood—could compare with Tellería in the closeness of the copy. Still, no one can imitate the inimitable, and of what avail is an exact reproduction of certain acts and words when all that is most essential is overlooked or ignored?
My readers may perhaps say that this figure is an anachronism, a reminiscence of the middle ages. But it is not; it is a sketch of our own day; at the same time, to see it you must know where to look for it, and that is not in a fashionable promenade. They do exist, these seraphic youths, and are the glory of our Church. The nineteenth century—the richest and most encyclopedic of the centuries—has produced them as it has produced every type. Ours is a monstrous synthesis of all the ages, and who can foresee how far it will go before it has ceased shuffling and mingling its own inventions and marvels with the relics and curiosities of the distant past?
CHAPTER XIX.
THE MARQUESA GOES TO A CONCERT.