“You know, Padre, we are all channels through which God talks to people––just like the asequia out there in the street through which the water flows. We are all channels for divine love––so Padre Josè says.”
The priest sat before her like a huge pig, his little eyes blinking dully, and his great mouth still agape.
“We are never afraid of real things, Padre, you know; and so I couldn’t be afraid of the real ‘you,’ for that is a child of God. And the other ‘you’ isn’t real. We are only afraid of our wrong thoughts. But such thoughts are not really ours, you know, for they don’t come from God. But,” she laughed softly, “when I saw you coming up the steps after me this morning––well, lots of fear-thoughts came to me––why, they just seemed to come pelting down on me like the rain. But I wouldn’t listen to them. I turned right on them, just as I’ve seen Cucumbra turn on a puppy that was nagging him, and I said, ‘Here, now, I know what you are; I know you don’t come from God; and anything that doesn’t come from God isn’t really anything at all!’ And so they stopped pelting me. The good man Jesus knew, didn’t he? That’s why he said so often, ‘Be not afraid.’”
She paused again and beamed at him. Her big eyes sparkled, and her face glowed with celestial light. Diego raised a heavy 244 arm and, groping for the bottle, eagerly drained another glass of wine.
“You think that wine makes you happy, don’t you, Padre?” she observed, watching him gulp down the heavy liquor. “But it doesn’t. It just gives you what Padre Josè calls a false sense of happiness. And when that false sense passes away––for everything unreal has just got to pass away––why, then you are more unhappy than you were before. Isn’t it so?”
The astonished Diego now regained his voice. “Caramba, girl!” he ejaculated, “will you rein that runaway tongue!”
“No, Padre,” she replied evenly, “for it is God who is talking to you. Don’t you hear Him? You ought to, for you are a priest. You ought to know Him as well as the good man Jesus did. Padre, can you lay your hands on the sick babies and cure them?”
The man squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, and then broke into another brutal laugh. “Sick babies! Caramba! but we find it easier to raise new babies than to cure sick ones! But––little hada! Hombre! do hadas have such voluptuous bodies, such plump legs! Madre de Dios, girl, enough of your preaching! Come to me quick! I hunger for you! Come!”
“No, Padre,” she answered quietly, “I do not want to come to you. But I want to talk to you––”
“Dios y diablo! enough of your gab! Caramba! with a Venus before me do you think I yearn for a sermon? Hombre! delay it, delay it––”