THE SERVANT OF SERVANTS
Rome had become a provincial town and a dependency of Byzantium. It was governed by an Exarch in Ravenna, but often abandoned to its fate when the barbarians from the north amused themselves from time to time by raiding and pillaging it. For three hundred years no Emperor had visited Rome, and the former queen of the world lay despised in rubbish and ruin. But presently people began to collect and piece together the ruins of temples and palaces, and build churches out of them. Five hundred years after the death of Nero, an already ancient church of St. Peter stood in the middle of the tyrant"s circus, where the martyrs had suffered death. There were at least seven other churches in different parts of the town, and the Bishop of Rome dwelt in the Lateran Palace, near the church of the same name. There were also convents, and on the Appian Way stood the St. Andrew"s Convent, close to the Church of the Cross, which was built at the entrance to the catacombs.
About two o"clock one summer morning, all the fathers and brothers had risen, and read or sung early ma.s.s in the chancel. Afterwards the Abbot had gone into the garden in order to reflect. It was still dark, but the stars shone between the olive and orange trees, and the flowers swayed in the gentle breeze of the dawn.
The Abbot, a man of about fifty, strolled up and down in a covered arbour-walk, and every time he reached the south end he remained standing, in order to contemplate a marble tablet, erected by the side of other tablets. It stood over his future grave, which was by the side of the abbots who had already been buried. His name and the year of his birth were engraved upon the marble, while a s.p.a.ce was left for the date of his death.
"O Lord, how long wilt Thou forget me?" he sighed, as he turned round again. After he had thus continued walking till daybreak, he sat down in an arbour, in order to write something in a book which he took out of his pocket. The noise of awaking life in the city did not disturb him--nothing disturbed the white-haired man of fifty who had already been two hours on his legs without eating anything. Church bells rang, carts rattled, and the rushing of the Tiber could be heard through all other noises. But the old man continued to write, while his wrinkled face was faintly lit up by the red of dawn. At last steps were heard on the gravel-path; a novice entered the arbour, and placed a bowl of bread and milk by the Abbot. The latter started, as though he had been recalled from far away, and exclaimed, "Leave me in peace!" The novice remained standing, frightened and troubled. Then a little bird, which had been sitting in the arbour, struck up its song. The Abbot looked up, his countenance cleared, he cast a glance on the bowl of milk which he eagerly seized, and was in the act of raising it to his mouth, but, as he noticed the youth"s troubled aspect, he stopped. "Forgive my anger,"
he said, "but I was far away. As a penance, I do this!"
He was about to pour the milk on the ground, but in order that it might not be wasted, he poured it on the roots of a reddish-yellow lily that stood in one of the border-beds. As the novice gave no sign of going, the Abbot asked, "You wish to speak with me? Speak!"
"Holy Father."
"I am not holy; One is holy, the Lord your G.o.d in heaven! If you have a complaint, make it."
"I was a rich youth, who went and sold all that he had."
"I also did that when I was young, and then built seven convents, but have not regretted it. What have you against it? Why do you complain?"
The youth was silent.
"Is it about the food? There is a famine round us, and we must share with the poor."
"Not only that, venerable father, but the whole way of living here does not accomplish what it is intended to do."
"Say on."
"The scanty food does not subdue the flesh, for as I go about hungry the whole day, I involuntarily think only about eating--in church, during prayer, in solitude. The small amount of sleep makes me sleepy the whole day, and I go to sleep in the chancel. Desires, which I had not known before, are aroused by suppression; when I see wine, I feel a real longing to get vital warmth into my body."
"Then go and ask a brother to scourge you till you swim in your blood, then you will feel the vital warmth return."
"I have done that, but the blows only waken new desires."
"Read St. Augustine."
"I have done that. But the worst of all is the dirt. If I could bathe.
"Are you dirty? That betokens inward defilement. I never bathe, but my body is always clean. But I have noticed, as soon as my thoughts become impure, the body becomes impure! What do you think, then, will do you good? You do not wish to marry. Tertullian says marriage and fornication are the same. And St. Jerome is of opinion that it is better to burn than to marry."
"But St. Paul."
"Let St. Paul alone! But what do you want to do?"
"I cannot remain here, for I think that desires can only be extinguished by being satisfied."
"Servant of Satan! Do you not know that desires never can be satisfied?
You were once with your parents. You ate as much as you liked in the morning. Well! Were you not hungry again by noon? Certainly. So you cannot really satisfy yourself by eating! Now I will tell you one thing.
You are a child of the world; you don"t belong here; therefore go in peace! Eat of the swine"s husks which do not satisfy; but when you are sick of them, you will be welcome here again. The father"s house always stands open for the prodigal son."
The youth did not go, but burst into tears.
"No," he said, "I cannot return to the world, for I hate it and it hates me, but here I perish."
The Abbot rose and embraced him. "Poor child! Such is the world, such is life; but if it is so, and if you see that it is so, the only thing left is to live it; and count it a point of honour to live till death comes and liberates us."
"No! I want to die now," sobbed the youth.
"We may not do that, my son"; the words escaped from the old man. "If you knew ... if you knew...."
But he restrained himself: "What shall we do, then? Go to Father Martin and have some food, and a gla.s.s of wine, but only one; then go and have a good long sleep. Sleep for a day or two. Then come, that I may see you. Go now--but wait a minute--you must have a dispensation from me."
He sat down and wrote something on a page which he had torn out of the book. Armed with this permission, the youth departed, looking, however, somewhat hesitatingly and abashed.
The Abbot remained sitting, but did not begin to write again. Instead of that, he commenced crumbling the bread and strewing the crumbs on the table. Immediately a little bird came and picked one up; then there followed several, who settled on the old man"s hand, arms, and shoulders. A spray of vine hung from the roof of the arbour and swayed gently in the wind. Its ring-like tendrils felt about in the air for a support. The Abbot was amused, and placed his finger jestingly into one of the rings: "Come, little thing! here is your support!"
The tendril seemed to hear him, immediately curled round his finger, and formed a ring.
"Shall I get the ring?" jested the old man. "Perhaps I shall be a bishop. G.o.d deliver me!"
The Dean appeared in the door of the arbour. "Do I disturb you, brother?"
"No, not at all! I am only sitting here and playing."
"Birds and flowers! White lilies too? I have never seen such before."
"White? Just now they were reddish-yellow! Where do you see them?"
"There!"
The Abbot looked down on the ground where he had poured his milk, and behold! there were only white lilies, without a single yellow one. He did not venture to speak about it, for one cannot speak of such things; but he smiled to himself, and saw a token of grace in it.
"Well, Dean, how goes it in the city?"
"The Tiber is sinking."
"G.o.d be praised; but the whole of Trastevere has been ruined by the flood. I really wish that a great flood would come and drown us all--the whole human race--and very likely it will come some day."
"Still as hopeless as ever!"
"No, not without hope, but for that world, not for this. Christ says it Himself in the Apocalypse: here is nothing on which one can build; for the best that we have enjoyed was but trouble and misery."
"Not so, brother."
"You can flourish in mud, but that I have never done. And it seems as though one were compelled to wade in it with both feet. Did I not begin in my youth to preserve my soul by withdrawing from the world? Then I was compelled to go out into it, thrust into the confusion by force.