IN the fifth century, just as now, the sun rose every morning and
every evening retired to rest. In the morning, when the first rays
kissed the dew, the earth revived, the air was filled with the
sounds of rapture and hope; while in the evening the same earth
subsided into silence and plunged into gloomy darkness. One day was
like another, one night like another. From time to time a storm-cloud
raced up and there was the angry rumble of thunder, or a negligent
star fell out of the sky, or a pale monk ran to tell the brotherhood
that not far from the monastery he had seen a tiger--and that was
all, and then each day was like the next.
The monks worked and prayed, and their Father Superior played on
the organ, made Latin verses, and wrote music. The wonderful old
man possessed an extraordinary gift. He played on the organ with
such art that even the oldest monks, whose hearing had grown somewhat
dull towards the end of their lives, could not restrain their tears
when the sounds of the organ floated from his cell. When he spoke
of anything, even of the most ordinary things--for instance of
the trees, of the wild beasts, or of the sea--they could not
listen to him without a smile or tears, and it seemed that the same
chords vibrated in his soul as in the organ. If he were moved to
anger or abandoned himself to intense joy, or began speaking of
something terrible or grand, then a passionate inspiration took
possession of him, tears came into his flashing eyes, his face
flushed, and his voice thundered, and as the monks listened to him
they felt that their souls were spell-bound by his inspiration; at
such marvellous, splendid moments his power over them was boundless,
and if he had bidden his elders fling themselves into the sea, they
would all, every one of them, have hastened to carry out his wishes.
His music, his voice, his poetry in which he glorified God, the
heavens and the earth, were a continual source of joy to the monks.
It sometimes happened that through the monotony of their lives they
grew weary of the trees, the flowers, the spring, the autumn, their
ears were tired of the sound of the sea, and the song of the birds
seemed tedious to them, but the talents of their Father Superior
were as necessary to them as their daily bread.
Dozens of years passed by, and every day was like every other day,
every night was like every other night. Except the birds and the
wild beasts, not one soul appeared near the monastery. The nearest
human habitation was far away, and to reach it from the monastery,
or to reach the monastery from it, meant a journey of over seventy
miles across the desert. Only men who despised life, who had renounced
it, and who came to the monastery as to the grave, ventured to cross
the desert.
What was the amazement of the monks, therefore, when one night there
knocked at their gate a man who turned out to be from the town, and
the most ordinary sinner who loved life. Before saying his prayers
and asking for the Father Superior's blessing, this man asked for
wine and food. To the question how he had come from the town into
the desert, he answered by a long story of hunting; he had gone out
hunting, had drunk too much, and lost his way. To the suggestion
that he should enter the monastery and save his soul, he replied
with a smile: "I am not a fit companion for you!"
When he had eaten and drunk he looked at the monks who were serving
him, shook his head reproachfully, and said:
"You don't do anything, you monks. You are good for nothing but
eating and drinking. Is that the way to save one's soul? Only think,
while you sit here in peace, eat and drink and dream of beatitude,
your neighbours are perishing and going to hell. You should see
what is going on in the town! Some are dying of hunger, others, not
knowing what to do with their gold, sink into profligacy and perish
like flies stuck in honey. There is no faith, no truth in men. Whose
task is it to save them? Whose work is it to preach to them? It is
not for me, drunk from morning till night as I am. Can a meek spirit,
a loving heart, and faith in God have been given you for you to sit
here within four walls doing nothing?"
The townsman's drunken words were insolent and unseemly, but they
had a strange effect upon the Father Superior. The old man exchanged
glances with his monks, turned pale, and said:
"My brothers, he speaks the truth, you know. Indeed, poor people
in their weakness and lack of understanding are perishing in vice
and infidelity, while we do not move, as though it did not concern
us. Why should I not go and remind them of the Christ whom they
have forgotten?"
The townsman's words had carried the old man away. The next day he
took his staff, said farewell to the brotherhood, and set off for
the town. And the monks were left without music, and without his
speeches and verses. They spent a month drearily, then a second,
but the old man did not come back. At last after three months had
passed the familiar tap of his staff was heard. The monks flew to
meet him and showered questions upon him, but instead of being
delighted to see them he wept bitterly and did not utter a word.
The monks noticed that he looked greatly aged and had grown thinner;
his face looked exhausted and wore an expression of profound sadness,
and when he wept he had the air of a man who has been outraged.
The monks fell to weeping too, and began with sympathy asking him
why he was weeping, why his face was so gloomy, but he locked himself
in his cell without uttering a word. For seven days he sat in his
cell, eating and drinking nothing, weeping and not playing on his
organ. To knocking at his door and to the entreaties of the monks
to come out and share his grief with them he replied with unbroken
silence.
At last he came out. Gathering all the monks around him, with a
tear-stained face and with an expression of grief and indignation,
he began telling them of what had befallen him during those three
months. His voice was calm and his eyes were smiling while he
described his journey from the monastery to the town. On the road,
he told them, the birds sang to him, the brooks gurgled, and sweet
youthful hopes agitated his soul; he marched on and felt like a
soldier going to battle and confident of victory; he walked on
dreaming, and composed poems and hymns, and reached the end of his
journey without noticing it.
But his voice quivered, his eyes flashed, and he was full of wrath
when he came to speak of the town and of the men in it. Never in
his life had he seen or even dared to imagine what he met with when
he went into the town. Only then for the first time in his life,
in his old age, he saw and understood how powerful was the devil,
how fair was evil and how weak and faint-hearted and worthless were
men. By an unhappy chance the first dwelling he entered was the
abode of vice. Some fifty men in possession of much money were
eating and drinking wine beyond measure. Intoxicated by the wine,
they sang songs and boldly uttered terrible, revolting words such
as a God-fearing man could not bring himself to pronounce; boundlessly
free, self-confident, and happy, they feared neither God nor the
devil, nor death, but said and did what they liked, and went whither
their lust led them. And the wine, clear as amber, flecked with
sparks of gold, must have been irresistibly sweet and fragrant, for
each man who drank it smiled blissfully and wanted to drink more.
To the smile of man it responded with a smile and sparkled joyfully
when they drank it, as though it knew the devilish charm it kept
hidden in its sweetness.
The old man, growing more and more incensed and weeping with wrath,
went on to describe what he had seen. On a table in the midst of
the revellers, he said, stood a sinful, half-naked woman. It was
hard to imagine or to find in nature anything more lovely and
fascinating. This reptile, young, longhaired, dark-skinned, with
black eyes and full lips, shameless and insolent, showed her
snow-white teeth and smiled as though to say: "Look how shameless,
how beautiful I am." Silk and brocade fell in lovely folds from her
shoulders, but her beauty would not hide itself under her clothes,
but eagerly thrust itself through the folds, like the young grass
through the ground in spring. The shameless woman drank wine, sang
songs, and abandoned herself to anyone who wanted her.
Then the old man, wrathfully brandishing his arms, described the
horse-races, the bull-fights, the theatres, the artists' studios
where they painted naked women or moulded them of clay. He spoke
with inspiration, with sonorous beauty, as though he were playing
on unseen chords, while the monks, petrified, greedily drank in his
words and gasped with rapture. . . .
After describing all the charms of the devil, the beauty of evil,
and the fascinating grace of the dreadful female form, the old man
cursed the devil, turned and shut himself up in his cell. . . .
When he came out of his cell in the morning there was not a monk
left in the monastery; they had all fled to the town.
