The Father

The man whose story to be told was the wealthiest and most influential person in his parish; his name is Don Manuel Vasquez. Don Manuel had everything. He felt that he needed nothing and no one, not even God. He appeared in the priest’s study one day, tall and earnest.

“I have gotten a son,” said he, “and I wish to present him for baptism.”
“What shall his name be?”
“Emmanuel – after my father.”
“And the sponsors?”

They were mentioned and proved to be the best men and women of Don Manuel’s relations in the parish.

“Is there anything else?” inquired the priest and looked up.

The peasant hesitated a little.

“I should like very much to have him baptized by himself,” said he finally.
“That is to say on a week – day?”
“Next Sunday, at twelve o’clock noon.”
“Is there anything else?” inquired the priest.
“There is nothing else,” and the peasant twirled his cap as though he were about to go.

Then the priest rose. “There is yet this, however, ” said he, and walking toward Don Manuel, he took him by the hand and looked gravely into his eyes: “God grant that the child may be a blessing to you!”

One day sixteen years later. Don Manuel stood once more in the priest’s study.

“Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, Don Manuel,” said the priest; for he saw no change whatever in the man.
“That is because I have no troubles,” replied Don Manuel.

To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he asked. “What is your pleasure this evening?”

“I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to be confirmed by tomorrow.”
“He is a bright boy,” said the priest.
“So I have heard, and here are ten dollars for the priest.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” inquired the priest, fixing his eyes on Manuel.
“There is nothing else.”

Eight years more rolled by, and then one day noise was heard outside the priest’s study, for many men were approaching, and at their head was Manuel, who entered first.
he priest looked up and recognized him.

“You come well attended this evening, Manuel,” said he.
“I am here to request that the banns may be published for my son; he is about to marry Kristina Concepcion, daughter of Sigmund, who stands here beside me.”
“Why, is the richest girl in the parish.”
“So they say,” replied the peasant, stroking back his hair with one hand.

The priest sat a while as if in deep thought, then he entered the names in his book without making any comments, and the men wrote their signatures underneath. Manuel laid a four hundred peso on the table.

“One is all I am to have,” said the priest.
“I know that very well; but he is my only child; I want to do it handsomely.”

The priest took the money.

“This is now the third time, Manuel, that you have come on your son’s account.”
“But now I am through with him,” said Manuel, and folding up his pocketbook he said farewell and walked away.

The men slowly followed him.

A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing across the lake, one calm still day, to Storliden to make arrangements for the wedding.

“This thwart is not secure,” said the son and stood up to straighten the seat on which he was sitting.

At the same moment the board he was standing on slipped from under him; he threw out his arms, uttered a shriek, and fell overboard.

“Take hold the oar!” shouted the father, springing to his feet and holding out the oar.

But when the son made a couple of efforts he grew stiff.

“Wait a moment!” cried the father and began to row toward his son. The son rolled over on his back, gave his father one long look, and sank.

Manuel could scarcely believe it; he held the boat still and stared at the spot where his son had gone down, as though he must surely come to the surface again. There rose some bubbles, then some more, one large one that burst; and the lake lay there as smooth and bright as mirror again.

For three days and three nights people saw the father rowing round and round the spot without taking neither food nor sleep; he was dragging the lake for the body of his son. And toward morning of the third day he found it and carried it in his arms up over the hills to his farm.

It might have been about a year from that day when the priest, late one autumn evening, heard someone in the passage outside the door carefully trying to find the latch. The priest opened the door, and walked a tall, thin man with bowed form and white hair. The priest looked at him before he recognized him. It was Manuel.

“Are you out walking so late?” said the priest and stood still in front of him.
“Ah, yes! It is late,” said Manuel a took a seat.

The priest sat down also as though waiting. A long, long silence followed. At last Manuel said:

“I have something with me that I should like to give to the poor; I want it to be invested as a legacy in my son’s name.”

He rose, laid some money on the table and sat down again. The priest counted it.

“It is a great deal of money,” said he.
“It is half the price of my farm. I sold it today.”

The priest sat along in silence. At last he said but gently:

“What do you propose to so now Manuel?”
“Something better.”

They sat for a while, Manuel with downcast eyes, the priest with his eyes fixed on Manuel. Presently the priest said slowly and softly:

“I think your son has at last brought you a true blessing.”
“Yes, I think so myself,’ said Manuel looking up, while two big tears coursed slowly down his cheeks.

Virliza Santos
Easy to get along with, ebullient, jester of the group, a woman with a humble disposition.