The story I read was strange. Its hero was the youngest son of the thirteen children of a certain Don Beltran Yañez de Oñaz and of his wife Doña Maria Saez de Balda. Don Beltran was the head of an ancient and illustrious house, and his wife was his equal in birth and virtue. They were related to the greatest families in the province of Guipuzcoa. This is one of the pleasantest parts of Spain, a hilly country, with green, fertile valleys through which run bubbling crystalline streams. The cold in winter is tolerable and in summer the air is cool and fresh. Don Beltran's house stands in a long, narrow valley closed in by hills in front and by hills behind. But the view, though thus confined, is spacious. The summits of the hills are bare and stony, but trees grow on the sides, and on the lower slopes are patches of pasture, maize and corn. It is a smiling, richly coloured scene. A little river runs through the valley and it may be supposed that it was for the convenience of this that the house was built at that spot. But the times were troublous, and though no longer the fortress that had been destroyed by order of King Henry the Fourth and the Brotherhoods of Guipuzcoa, it could be defended in cue of need. It is a square building, the lower part (the remains of the fourteenth century stronghold) of grey untrimmed stone, but the upperpart, built a century later in a less warlike manner, is of brick, with little pepper-pot towers called bartizans decorating the four corners. It is not very large; in England it would seem a country house of but moderate size, and Don Beltran and his wife, with their large family and the number of servants that their station demanded, must have been somewhat crowded. Don Beltran was a man of consequence and his heir, Don Martin, married Doña Magdalena d'Araoz, maid of honour to Queen Isabella the Catholic, who gave her as a wedding-present a painting of the Annunciation. A few days after the bride arrived in her new home she was surprised to find the picture bathed in sweat. The miracle caused great surprise to all the members of the family and Don Pedro Lopez, her husband's brother and a priest, proposed that the picture should be transferred to the village church for the veneration of the faithful. But Don Martin. unwilling to part with so great a treasure, offered instead to build a chapel in the house, where the miraculous painting might be suitably enshrined.
The youngest son of Don Beltran, the hero of the story I read, was christened Iñigo. When little more than a child he was sent by his father to Court and here entered the service of Don Juan Velazquez de Cuellar, treasurer to the Catholic Kings. Service was an honourable calling. Men of rank thought it no disgrace to place their sons in the households of great noblemen. They waited at table, made the beds, lit the fires, swept the floors and fetched and carried for their masters. Don Juan Velazquez was governor of Arevalo in the province of Avila, one of the cities left by Juan II of Castile to his widow, the mother of Isabella. The arms of Arevalo show a battlemented wall and a plumed knight in full armour on horseback, with his lance at rest. Here the young Iñigo learnt manners, the usages of the world and such accomplishments as became a gentleman. Growing to man's estate, with the example before him of his brothers, who were goodly men, and urged by his own gallant spirit, he applied himself to the exercise of arms. He sought to excel his equals and to achieve a reputation for valour. But his biographer passes over this period of his life briefly. It is only from his own casual remarks made in after life that he is known to have been quick to defend his honour when the occasion arose, to have loved the chase and to have been something of a gambler. He was a young man of a comely person, not very tall, but well-made, with small feet of which he was not a little proud; he admitted in later years that he liked to wear boots that were too tight for him. He had beautiful hair, of a chestnut colour with a reddish glint in it, and his brown eyes were large, moving and wonderfully eloquent. His skin was white. His nose was hooked; it was the most noticeable feature of his face, but it was not so large as to be a disfigurement. He wore with grace the rich clothes of the court. For the sober habit which the economical spirit of Ferdinand the Catholic had except on occasions of state made usual, gave way with the arrival of Philip the Handsome, and his Flemish followers, to fashions of great extravagance. Don Iñigo was of an amorous complexion and is reputed to have been the lover of Germaine de Foix, the young wife whom Ferdinand, notwithstanding his name of the Prudent. married after the death of Isabella. The French chronicler describes her as 'bonne et fort belle princesse,' but another contemporary, a Spaniard, states that she was ill-favoured and lame. He was possibly prejudiced. 'This lady introduced into Castile magnificent dinners, albeit the Castilians and even their kings are very moderate in this matter,' he says severely. 'Whoever spent money on parties and banquets for her was her friend.' 'She was but eighteen when she married (Ferdinand being fifty-four) and it is not strange if she liked to amuse herself. Don Iñigo fell passionately in love with her. He wore her colours and composed madrigals in her honour. He was a very proper gentleman.
He lived a life of ease and gallantry till the age of twenty-seven when King Ferdinand being dead and his widow remarried, he entered the service of Don Antonio Manrique, Duke of Najera, a patron of his house. He took part in various campaigns. He was ambitious and energetic. He had a native gift for the managing of men so that the Duke of Najera employed him in affairs that needed discretion. On one occasion he sent him on a mission to reconcile contending factions in Guipuzcoa, and Don Iñigo succeeded in settling the matters in dispute to the satisfaction of all concerned. Charles V began his reign over Spain with a series of mistakes that drove his new subjects to revolt. The King of France seized the opportunity to declare war on his rival and a French army entered Navarre. The Duke of Najera, who was in command of the Spanish troops, leaving a garrison in the city of Pampeluna, evacuated the country. The French laid siege to the city, and the officers of the garrison, among whom was Don Iñigo, seeing no help for it, were of a mind to capitulate; but Don Iñigo opposed the common judgement and by his eloquence filled them with his own spirit so that they determined to resist to the death. But in the course of the assault he was hit by a cannonball in the right leg, and a splinter of stone from the wall at the same time wounded his other leg also. He fell and the garrison who had been sustained by his courage lost heart and surrendered.
The French entered the city. When they came upon Don Iñigo and discovered who he was they were moved to compassion and tended his wounds. So that he might be better taken care of, the French commander with generous courtesy gave orders that as as soon as it was possible he should be home back to his own house in a litter. But no sooner was he there than his wounds, especially that on his right leg, grew worse. The surgeons formed the opinion that in order to set it properly the bone must be broken again. This was done, to the great pain of the sick man, but during the operation he neither changed colour, groaned nor said a word that discovered want of courage. He did not mend, however, and little hope remained that he would recover. He was told of his danger, whereupon he confessed and received the sacrament of extreme unction. But that night, St. Peter, for whom he had always had a devotion, appeared to him and restored him to health. His bones began to set and he grew stronger. Twenty splinters of bone had been removed from his leg, so that it was shorter than the other and mis-shapen; and he could neither walk nor stand. Below the knee a piece of bone protruded in an unsightly manner and this distressed him so much that he asked the surgeons how it might be remedied. They told him that the excrescence could be cut away, but it would cause him greater anguish than he had ever endured in his life. His intention was to proceed with the career of arms; he was vain, he wanted to wear the smart boots that were then in fashion; and so notwithstanding their hesitation he insisted that the operation should be performed. He would not consent to be tied down, thinking this unworthy of his generous soul, and bore the suffering without a movement and without a murmur. The deformity was removed and then by means of wheels and other instruments, which caused him horrible pain, they gradually stretched and straightened the leg. But it never attained the same length as the other and he limped to the end of his life.
To pass the tedious hours of his convalescence he asked for the novels of chivalry which he was fond of reading, but it happened that there were none in the house. They gave him what books they had, and these were a life of Christ and the stories of the saints which were known as Flos Sanctorum. He began to read, carelessly enough, but in a little while was deeply moved, and presently there arose in him a desire to imitate the great deeds of which he read. But he could not at once forget the past and he was beset by memories of his warlike exploits, the pleasant occupations of the court and thoughts of love. God and the Devil contended for his soul. But he noticed that when he thought of things divine he was filled with exultation, and contrariwise when he thought of things of the world, with discontent. That was enough. He determined to alter his life. His bitterest torment was the love that he sought in vain to tear out of his yearning heart; and one night, when he rose from his bed to pray, as was his frequent habit, the Queen of Heaven, with the child in her arms, appeared to him. From that time he was freed from the sensual thoughts that had vexed him, so that to the end of his life he preserved the chastity of his soul without stain.
His elder brother, and the people of the house, saw that he was different, for though he kept his secret his manner was changed. They must indeed have guessed that something very odd was going on, for when the young soldier finally made up his mind to follow in the footsteps of Jesus the house was rocked with a great crash and the stout stone wall was split through its entire thickness. It was observed that he read a great deal (an occupation naturally unfitting for a man of his birth) and prayed, and no longer cared to jest; his speech was grave and measured, of spiritual things, and he wrote much. He had a book elegantly bound and in this, for he was a good scribe, wrote down the most remarkable sayings and deeds of Jesus, of Mary, and of the Saints. He wrote those of Jesus in letters of gold, those of his blessed mother in letters of blue, and those of the other saints in other colours according to his devotion to them. He found satisfaction in these pursuits, but in none greater than in the contemplation of the sky and the stars. It stimulated him to contempt of all mutable things which are beneath them and enflamed his love of God. This habit never left him and his biographer relates how in old age when he could behold the heavens from some height he would remain absorbed in the sight so that he seemed transported. When he returned to himself the tears poured from his eyes with the delight that filled his heart and he said: 'how vile and base appears the earth when I look at the sky; it is but mud and dung.' He resolved to go to Jerusalem as soon as he had recovered his health. Till this was possible he decided with fasting, penitences of various kinds and corporal punishment to persecute his flesh. He sought a manner of life in which, stamping earthly things and the vanities of the world beneath his feet, he might, castigate himself with such rigour as to give satisfaction to his Redeemer.
When at last he was sufficiently well to set out on his pilgrimage, Don Iñigo, knowing that it would arouse opposition in his family, gave as a pretext for leaving the house his desire to visit his protector, the Duke of Najera, who had sent several times during his illness to enquire after him. But his elder brother, Don Martin, suspecting that the journey he was taking had another motive than civility, called him aside.
'All things are great in you, my brother,' he said, 'your intelligence, your judgement, your courage, your birth, your appearance, your influence with the great, the goodwill in which this country holds you, the use and experience of war, sense and prudence, your age which is now in the flower of youth, and the great expectations, founded on these facts, which all men have of you. So how can you for a whim, deceiving our well-founded hopes, make fools of us all, and dispossess our house of the trophies of your victories and of the profits and rewards that should ensue from your labours? I have one advantage only over you, that I was born before you; but in everything else I recognise that you excel me. Look, I beg you, brother clearer than my life, look what you do and adopt not a course that will not only cheat us of our hopes, but will also cast upon our lineage perpetual infamy and disgrace.'
Don Iñigo answered in few words. He said that he would not forget that he was well-born, and he promised to do nothing to bring dishonour on his house. He act out accompanied by two servants, but, giving them presents, soon afterwards dismissed them. His immediate destination was Monserrat. From the day he left his father's house he scourged himself every night. He desired to do great and difficult things and he mortified his body with severity, because the saints, whose example he sought to follow, had thus acquitted themselves. In this he aimed, not so much at atoning for his sins, as at pleasing God. The road led over hill and dale, sometimes along a rivulet, sometimes high above; a pleasant, green and smiling country. From the top of a hill the hills all round looked like a great flock of sheep; and on the banks of the stream trees grew thickly, oaks and chestnuts, acacias, beech and poplar. At a certain place Don Iñigo was overtaken by a Moor, of whom at that time there were still many in the kingdoms of Valencia and Aragon, and they rode for a space together. They began to talk and presently discussed the virginity of Our Lady. The Moor admitted that she had enjoyed this blessed state before and at the birth of Jesus, but denied that she had retained it afterwards. Don Iñigo did all he could to undeceive him, but, such was his knavishness, he would not listen to reason. The Moor rode on, leaving Don Iñigo much perplexed; he could not decide whether his faith, and Christian charity, did not demand that he should pursue the fellow and stab him to the death for his audacity. He was a soldier, punctilious in the point of honour, and he took it as a personal affront that an enemy of the faith should venture in his presence to speak with disrespect of the Queen of Heaven. After anxious consideration he decided to leave the matter to the arbitrament of God; he made up his mind to go on his way till he came to a cross-road and there drop the reins on his horse's neck. If the horse took the road along which the Moor had gone he would follow and kill him. But if the horse took the other road he would let him be. Thus he did and the horse, leaving on one side the broad and flat road along which the Moor had ridden, chose the other. God had spoken. Arriving at length in the neighbourhood of Monserrat Don Inigo reached a village where he provided himself with what little he needed for his pilgrimage. He bought a tunic of rough coarse stuff that reached to his feet. a piece of rope for a belt, espadrilles, a staff and a drinking-vessel.
Monserrat was a Benedictine monastery famous for the miracles that were constantly worked there and for the great concourse of people that came from all parts to ask favour of the Holy Virgin. Don Iñigo on his arrival sought out a confessor. He made a general confession that lasted three days. He then gave his horse to the monastery, and laid his sword and his dagger before the altar of Our Lady. When the night came he went to a poor man and giving him all his clothes, even his shirt, dressed himself in the coarse habit he had bought. And because he had read in the books of chivalry that it was the custom of new-made knights to keep vigil over their arms, Don Iñigo, the new-made knight of Christ, spent the night watching before the image of the Blessed Virgin, and bitterly weeping for his sins resolved to amend his life from then on. Before dawn, so that none should know whither he went, he abandoned the highroad that led to Barcelona (whence it would have been natural to take ship for Italy) and with all speed started for a village in the mountains called Manresa. He wore his pilgrim clothes. but since his wound still troubled him he had one foot shod. But he had not gone a league before he found that a man was following him and calling. The man asked him if it was true that he had given his rich clothes to a beggar. For, finding him with them and thinking he had stolen them, they bad cast the fellow into prison. Don Iñigo confessed that he had indeed given him the clothes, but when the man asked him who he was and whence he came he would not answer.
At Manresa, concealing his birth and the manner of his life aforetime, he took up his abode in the hospital of the poor; and because in the world he had been careful of his person and vain of his beautiful hair, which he had been accustomed to wear long, now he neglected it and went bare head. He allowed his beard and nails to grow. Every day he scourged himself three times and spent seven hours on his knees, Every day he went to mass, to vespers and to compline. Every day he begged for alms. But he neither ate meat nor drank wine; he lived on bread and water. He slept on the ground, passing the greater part of the night in prayer. He was careful to deny himself everything that could be of pleasure to his body, and though he was a robust man and a strong one in a little while the severity of his mortifications reduced him to very great weakness. But one day in the hospital with that beggarly crew, amid squalor and filth, he asked himself: 'What are you doing in this stench and vileness? Why do you go dressed so poorly and in so disgraceful a fashion? Do you not see that by consorting with people so base, and behaving like one of them, you obscure the greatness of your lineage?' He knew it was the voice of the devil and drew nearer still to the poor people and constrained himself to use them in a more friendly way. Another day, worn out and tired, the thought came to him that it was impossible for him to endure, for seventy years it might be, a life worse than a savage's, so harsh and wretched. 'And what,' he answered, 'are seventy years of penitence compared with eternity?' After a time the peace of soul that had been his comfort deserted him and he felt a great dryness in his heart; his spirit seemed constricted and he prayed without satisfaction or relief. He was seized with scruples that in his general confession he had not said all that he should have said. His conscience smote him so that, tortured with anxiety, he passed his nights in bitter tears. On one occasion, when he had left the hospital and was living in a Dominican monastery, his despair was such that he was tempted to throw himself out of the window of his cell. It was then that it profited him to have read the Flos Sanctorum, for he remembered the example of a saint who, wanting something from God, decided to fast till it was vouchsafed him; and in imitation Don Iñigo made up his mind neither to eat nor drink till he secured the peace of mind he desired. Nothing passed his lips for a week, during which time he continued to pray for seven hours a day on his knees, scourged himself thrice daily and performed the other devotions that he was used to. At the end of it he found himself strong enough to continue, but his confessor ordered him to eat and refused to give him absolution till he did. He broke his fast and in a short while was completely delivered of his scruples; he buried the memory of his past sins and was never more troubled by them.
Further mercies were then vouchsafed to the penitent. One day, being in prayer on the steps of the church of St. Dominic, his spirit was lifted up and he saw, as with his eyes, the form of the Holy Trinity. The vision filled him with such great comfort that he could neither think nor speak of anything else. He expounded the mystery with such an abundance of reasons, similes and examples, that all who heard him were overcome with admiration and surprise. Often, while praying, he perceived the Sacred Humanity of Jesus Christ and sometimes also the glorious and blessed Virgin Mary. One day, walking a little way out of Manresa, occupied with the contemplation of divine things, he sat down by the side of a stream and gazed at the flowing water; on a sudden his eyes were opened and he saw (not sensibly, but after a higher and more immaterial manner), with a new and unaccustomed light, so that he understood not only the mysteries of the faith, but also the mysteries of all knowledge. He affirmed at the end of his life that none of the knowledge that he had afterwards acquired either by study or by supernatural grace had the fullness of the knowledge he received in that moment of illumination.
One Saturday, occupied as usual with his devotional exercises, he fell into a swoon, and those about him thought he was dead and would have buried him if one, feeling his pulse, had not observed that his heart still beat. He remained in this condition till the following Saturday when he awoke as from a sweet sleep.
Exhausted by excessive labour of the body and incessant combats of the soul he found himself constrained to rest a little; but visions so wonderful came to him and consolations so sweet, he was unable to give to sleep even the short time he had assigned to it and passed his nights in transport. He fell so seriously ill that his life was despaired of. As he prepared himself for death Satan suggested to him the notion that being a just and pious man he need not fear. It terrified him and with all his might he fought against it, trying by the recollection of his past sins to wrench out of his heart the devilish hope in the mercy of God; and when he was well enough to speak he begged those who were present when they saw him in the agony of death with great care to say to him: 'O miserable sinner, O luckless man, remember the evil thou hast done and the offences with which thou hast called down on thee the anger of God.' Having somewhat recovered he immediately resumed his accustomed penances and his austere mode of life. Striving with indefatigable determination to conquer himself, he laid upon his weary body burdens greater than it could bear and he fell gravely ill a second and a third time. At last experience and a great pain in his stomach, combined with the rigour of the weather, for it was winter, persuaded him at least to clothe himself sufficiently to keep out the cold. In this manner he lived for the greater part of a year and then the time arrived when he was ready to start on his pilgrimage to Jerusalem. There were some who offered to bear him company and others who advised him not to attempt so long and arduous a journey without someone who knew Italian or Latin to serve as a guide and interpreter. But he desired to be alone with God so that he might enjoy communion with him without let or hindrance. He placed his confidence in Him and he was unwilling to betray it by relying on the assistance of another. He set out for Barcelona and his distant goal with no other company than God's.
Such was the early life of Don Iñigo de Oñaz, a Spanish gentleman, known to history as Saint Ignatius Loyola. The reader will long since have guessed it, for the tale I have told is well-known. The book that Don Fernando made me, all unwilling, buy was the life that was written of him not long after his death by Father Pedro de Ribadeneyra of the Company of Jesus.
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