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:
